Tick Tock
by wrldpossibility
Summary: Set directly after The Key in S1. Lincoln is granted clemency. The escape is off. Michael has a five-year sentence to serve.
1. Chapter 1

As of 8 am this morning, the governor has granted your brother clemency.

Michael stared after The Pope as he turned and strode down the catwalk away from the cell, the shock of his words still spinning through his head, buzzing with the chaotic frenzy of an insect flitting from spot to spot, never landing. Never stilling. How could this be? What had happened? He was reeling from the surprise, but above the hum of his confusion, a internal shout of joy was sounding from his heart to his toes and back again, rising in volume until he wouldn't be surprised to find he was yelling audibly. _It was over. Lincoln was spared._

A minute later, footsteps were again sounding on the metal catwalk, and when the guard paused outside his cell and the panel slid open, it took Michael a moment to remember why he was there. It was a five minute walk to the infirmary, and he spent the entire time reigning the discordant notes of his disbelief back in, assessing and cataloguing. Elation now grated against desperation, because _he had to call it off._ The escape. The tunnel. Bellick duct-taped in the pipes. All of it. There were loose ends to tie, fragments to be made seamless, and fast.

He scanned her face the second he saw her, watching her walk from her office to his side in Exam Room 2. She moved with careful deliberation, and her last words to him the day before, spoken in the wake of a new lock installed on her door,rose up in his consciousness to mock him. _We're done here._ Had she had a hand in this?

She didn't want him to ask her. She kept her hands and her eyes busy ripping the paper off a sterile syringe and drawing up the insulin, and now that she was standing over him, reaching for his hand and pressing the tester into the pad of his finger, he could feel a brittle stiffness in her every move, seeping under the pores of his skin and spreading. Now he was nervous, too.

Impossibly, she wasn't angry. When her eyes dared to catch his-just twice in the entire six minutes they were together-they were warm. They shone with an almost glassy sheen, as though she were…exhilarated. Self-accomplished, even?

"I heard about your brother," she said eventually, her hair almost but not quite brushing his cheek as she leaned toward him with a cotton ball. "I'm so glad, Michael."

For an instant, she looked like she wanted to say more. He heard the quiver of _something_ just below the level cadence of her tone, and he wanted to reach for her. Her hand was right there, right next to his, on the side of the exam table, and then her fingers were curving around the edge of the metal prep tray and she was rising, turning away. It was just as well, of course, but all the same, when he stood reluctantly, taking a step toward her, it hurt more than he had anticipated to watch her take her own hasty step backward. He swallowed. "About yesterday-"

She held up one hand, shaking her head, and the gesture was as effective as a gag in his mouth. He stopped, silent. "Not today," she said, her voice a low, urgent whisper. He could discern a single isolated muscle clenching beneath her jaw. He had the sudden impulse to press his finger _right there,_ on that pulse point, and feel her heart pounding underneath his fingertips. Just once. Just today. "Tell Lincoln…I'll need to schedule a regular physical with him sometime next week, or the next." She paused, as though something pleasant had just occurred to her, then she braved locking her eyes with his. "No rush." She smiled.

 _She smiled,_ and it was joy and pain manifested as one, and he literally had to ball his hands into fists to keep from touching her. It wasn't until later, when he was back in his cell, sitting on his bunk and taking stock, that he realized this was the first day of the rest of his sentence. 

_Wait for me._

She had tried to forget the feel of his hand on the back of her neck, the sensation of his mouth on hers-seeking, demanding-the taste of him that had left her feeling both fragile and invincible. The revelation of his betrayal, laid bare before her only yesterday, still seared like acid, churning her stomach with fierce, righteous anger. _And yet._

And yet last night she had driven straight from Fox River to sit in her father's outer office all evening as he determinedly worked late, allowing her fury to fan and flare like the woman scored she was, while he shut her out. While he put her off. She had waited and waited, with nothing to but the feel of Michael's lips still burning into her flesh for company, leaving her feeling exposed and raw, and at the time, it had seemed as good a way as any to exercise her frustration. To convert her anger into action, and to divert her from the glass of scotch neat that awaited her at any of the half dozen bars less than a block in any direction from her apartment. _And it had worked._

She read the question in Michael's eyes the second he walked into the infirmary, but she couldn't answer it. Not now. Instead, she prepped her tray. She offered her hand, palm up, to receive his, as she did every day, cradling his finger between hers as she pricked it and watched the single bead of blood swell to a dark maroon against his olive skin. She relied on the comforting rhythm of their familiar routine like a crutch, trying to convince herself this was standard care. This was protocol.

She felt his gaze. She could pinpoint every second he looked at her and every second he looked away, over and over, until she finally felt ready to melt. His hand sat millimeters from hers, then moved away, then slid closer. _This was madness._

"I heard about your brother," she blurted, because something had to happen to interrupt the rapidly accelerating beat of her heart. "I'm so glad, Michael." _And she was. She was._

Late that afternoon, the prison buzzed with the discovery of Brad Bellick, taped and bound, in a pipe below the guard break room, blinking up through the darkness toward a glaring hole smashed through the floor directly above him. He had been brought to her on a gurney, yelling incessantly about Scofield and breakout plans and how he was going to kill that son-of-a-bitch before the day was out, and when she had stuck him in the thigh with 30 ml Thorazine, the silence that followed had constituted the first calm she felt all day.

Later, signing out in the staff room, she learned Charles Westmoreland had taken the blame for the whole thing, from the hole under the break room to the shovel to Bellick's head. When asked about Michael Scofield, Westmoreland had only shook his head in confusion. What did the college kid have to do with his only child dying in a hospital, miles away? What did he have to do with the desperation a father feels in the event of his daughter's suffering?

Back in her office, Sara leaned against her desk, watching the staff parking lot slowly clear out below her. She should go home. She should be staring out at the darkening Chicago skyline from the comfort of her kitchen, not here, where the bars over the safety glass spliced her view into dozens of symmetrical shards. But she stayed anyway, thinking of keys and holes and infirmary doors. Of catalysts and pieces to this puzzle. Of herself, and Michael. She couldn't form his name without feeling her pulse spike, and she wished there was an easy explanation why. _She feared there was._ She had questions, so many questions, and five years seemed a long time to wait when the answer remained right in front of her every single day.


	2. Chapter 2

Year One, Month One

Day 1  
(The evening of Lincoln's clemency)

Sara stared through the viewing window from her office into Exam 1. The pane was so thick, the image on the other side-a man lying prone on the rolling gurney-appeared almost opaque, wavering with the subtle undulations of the safety glass. She rocked gently on her heels, arms crossed in front of her, thinking.

"Have you called in the transfer to Mercy?"

"What?" She turned toward the doorway. Katie stood waiting, her coat slung over one shoulder. "Uh, no. Not yet."

"You want me to call it in?"

"No, that's alright." Sara smiled. "Go on home."

Katie lifted one eyebrow. "But you'll call, right? Because that stab wound is not pretty."

Sara turned her gaze back to the glass. "I just want to talk to him for a moment, now that he's conscious." She raked one hand through her hair, resisting the urge to rub circles against her temple in an effort to soothe the headache that throbbed with a dull ache just underneath her skull. _She was so tired._ She turned back to Katie. "It doesn't make any sense, right?"

The other woman shook her head as she gathered her purse and keys. "Doesn't fit his profile, no."

It had been a rhetorical question, of course, and Sara only nodded, then watched Katie's retreating back as she left the infirmary, the outer door clicking closed with a sharp sound of finality behind her. A few seconds later, Sara pushed open the door to Exam 1, and stood over the gurney.

"Charles? How are you feeling now?"

Charles Westmoreland turned his face on the stiff plastic toward her. "Been better, Doc."

Sara did her best to keep her tone conversational. "It's a nasty cut you've got there," she agreed.

"At least I'm not bleeding all over myself anymore, right?" He attempted a weak smile.

Sara returned it. "That's a start, but I'm going to send you to Mercy tonight, just to play it safe." She paused, turning to get a fresh 4x4 bandage from the cabinet. When she returned to his side, Westmoreland's eyes were closing. He wouldn't have the energy to speak for long. "Charles?" He blinked rapidly for a few seconds, fighting sleep, then focused briefly on her. "Tell me how this happened again?"

He shook his head feebly. "C'mon Doc, I've already gone over it all with The Pope, _and_ you."

"I know." She slowly peeled the used 4x4 off his wound, eying the surrounding skin for discoloration. "But the tunnel, below the break room. That part…that wasn't your doing, was it?"

He shifted uncomfortably. Sara studied the vein that throbbed a bit wildly at the base of his throat. The sight made her wonder what a heart rate monitor would display were she to utilize one right about now. "Why?" he eventually answered, his voice carefully light. "You don't think I've got the muscle?"

Sara concentrated on holding the fresh bandage in place with two fingers while cutting surgical tape into several strips. "It's not a one-man job," she replied evenly.

Westmoreland was silent for a long time. The new bandage was secure by the time he spoke. "Well," he said, "even if I'm not as…spry…as I once was, I'm also no snitch. _That_ much hasn't changed." Sara looked directly at him, and now, he stared back at her unwaveringly. "So. When does my ride to Mercy get here? Nothing waiting for me here but a long, long stint in the SHU."

His evasion was so complete, and delivered with such decisiveness, Sara couldn't help but be reminded of someone else entirely. She frowned, then sighed. "I'll call you in right now."

Day 2

Veronica was waiting for Michael at 9:30 am the following morning, filling the second-earliest visitation slot. She had seen Lincoln first, at nine. Letting her briefcase slip off her narrow shoulder and fall heavily to the table, she didn't waste time, attempting to answer as many of Michael's questions as she could at once. She explained hastily that Lincoln's clemency had been conditional. Without the evidence necessary to grant a full pardon, his sentence had been reduced from the death penalty to life with the possibility of parole in 20 years. At first the news hit Michael like a blow, but across the table, Veronica's eyes were shining; she looked almost giddy for the first time in years.

"I still can't figure out how it happened, but it's the best we could have hoped for," she said. "I'm working with a new firm that deals extensively with parole board hearings, and there's a good chance we can get that sentence reduced significantly." She paused. "I'm working on reducing your sentence, too."

Michael leaned forward, catching and holding her large eyes over the distance of the table between them. "Don't worry about mine."

"Don't be stupid, Michael," she said, rising as the C.O. called for the end of visitation. "We both know you don't belong here."

He thought of the way in which, upon word of Lincoln's clemency, he had effectively crushed the only way out for more than one desperate and dangerous man. He still had a few cards left to play, a few points of leverage which he could apply against the inmates, but not much. He hadn't argued further.

 _He expected significant fall-out._ Walking back from visitation, he knew he didn't have a contingency for cancelling the escape. The only circumstances for which he ever foresaw himself calling it off had been his own death or Lincoln's. In other words, when he had absolutely nothing left to lose. Now, they were both very much alive, and the amount he stood to lose made his head spin. He had five years to serve, and would spend every minute of them locked in this concrete box of engineering marvel, incarcerated with Abruzzi, T-Bag, and C-Note, all of whom now saw him as a liar and a fraud. _Incarcerated as well with Sara, who, likewise, no doubt now saw him as a liar and a fraud.  
_

She switched his appointment time from early afternoon to mid-morning. When he arrived at the infirmary at ten am, he immediately realized why. There was a line of inmates a dozen deep in the outer sick bay, with half as many guards sprawled in metal chairs and leaning against the walls, sipping coffee. The rookie C.O. who had escorted him from Gen Pop groaned audibly at the sight of the crowded room. Another guard standing across the way laughed, then tossed him a section of the paper he was reading. "Welcome to the morning rush."

 _She was implementing a buffer of sorts, a built-in safety in numbers, between them._ Michael had no choice but to sit and wait. Every so often, he caught a glimpse of her through the open door, moving with efficient speed back and forth from the various exam rooms and her office, delegating at least half of her patients to her nurse as she moved on to the next. She was wearing something in a rich, dark brown; fitted, and with a V-neck. Short-sleeved, because with the sleeves of her lab coat rolled up, her arms were bare, her skin softly pale in the light coming through the window as she flipped the pages of the chart she was studying, standing in the doorway of the infirmary. She was checking off patients quickly, and while he waited, Michael tried to keep his mind where it was most needed-he was now in as much need of a plan to stay alive _in_ Fox River as he had been to get _out_ of it. When he was finally ushered into Exam 7, however, and she entered the room, her sheer physical proximity cleared his head like a quick whiff of ammonia. Like the sharp sting of alcohol in his nostrils. The sight of her prompted him to simultaneously lose all interest in sorting out his tenuous inmate relations, as well as become even _more_ desperate to resolve them than took his averted expression in stride. "Something distracting you?"

He looked up at her from his perch on the end of the exam table. Her face was slightly flushed, no doubt from so much rushing around, but her eyes were a bit too bright to be attributed to merely the demands of her morning. "No," he answered evenly, offering her a half-smile. "Why? You?"

She shook her head quickly, her hair, loose today, falling into her face for an instant before she tucked a long strand of it hastily behind one ear. He watched her fingers brush against the skin of her cheek, a rush of deja vu consuming him as he felt the ghost of sensation tingle along his own fingertips at the memory of his _own_ hand skimming the impossibly soft skin of her temple. There had been something so intimate about the feeling of his hands in her hair, almost as intimate as his mouth on hers, he longed to reclaim it. Reclaim _her_.

She frowned, and he immediately straightened, fixing his face into something he hoped resembled complacency. "Actually, yes, I'm distracted," she said abruptly, and he looked back up, startled. "I called a sixty-eight year old man into Mercy last night for a potentially lethal stab wound. A man with a spotless 30-odd year old record of good behavior, until yesterday."

His mouth felt suddenly dry. "Is he going to be alright?"

Her face softened, just a degree. "I think so." Her voice lowered to an intense, breathy whisper that made the blood accelerate in his veins, despite the frustration etched across her face. _"Why_ is Westmoreland in Mercy, on his way to the SHU? Why is there a hole below the C.O. break room?" She paused. When she spoke again, the words seemed to get lodged in her throat. "Why did you want my keys?"

He _wanted_ to answer. He struggled to piece together an explanation he could offer her, but before he could even begin to form one sentence, she held up one hand, effectively silencing him. She took a breath that seemed to draw her up several inches. "And Michael, why do I know that I should not- _cannot_ -hear the answers to these questions?

For this, ironically, he _had_ an answer. "Because you're right."

She turned toward him, and he was startled anew by the intensity he could read all over her face; she was standing with her profile turned to the doorway, and the sight nearly made him flinch. If anyone else glanced over and saw her expression, they would misunderstand. They would see too much emotion, and they would take it for something it was not…something that it could not be. Something that went beyond concern, bordering dangerously on personal investment. Something akin to passion.

"I didn't want to involve you," he offered, and the statement sounded weak even in his own head. "I never did!"

"You keep evading! You keep deflecting!" Her voice was now a fierce, high whisper, and Michael had to literally bite his tongue to keep from contradicting her. To keep from yelling, and drawing attention to them both. "Over and over," Sara continued, "I've proven my desire to help you-I've sympathized, I've bent rules, I've… _God."_ She put one hand abruptly to her face, then dropped it just as quickly back to her side. Shaking her head slightly, she shifted gears. "You're saying you have nothing to do with Westmoreland? Nothing to do with Bellick?" She stared straight into his eyes, then away again just as quickly. "Your face? It's a shield. Everything just bounces off of you!"

Michael _did_ answer her now, attention be damned. He reached out and captured both her wrists in his hands. Her entire body seemed to still and stiffen at the shock of his touch, but she didn't pull away, and he felt strangely vindicated. "If I'm deflecting, it's to shield _you_. It's to protect _you._ Tell me you don't know that!"

She didn't argue, and still, she did not pull away. She only breathed in and out; Michael looked down, trying to untangle the knot of explanations that filled his head, his eyes on the quick rise and fall of the abacus medallion settled against her chest. "Lincoln was going to die," he told her unnecessarily. "We- _I-_ was suddenly caught up in this surreal insanity, this alter-reality where everything became twisted and backward, and now, it's over."

Michael suddenly realized he was still grasping her hands, with the door open and their voices, though hushed, speaking volumes. He dropped them, and she tucked them hastily into the pockets of her lab coat, throwing a look over her shoulder toward the hallway, then back again, to him. He continued right where he'd left off, as though he'd never stopped speaking. As though they'd never been touching. "I really think it's over, and I'm here, and will be…and I want to _start_ over, where you're concerned."

The admission surprised him. He turned the words over again in his head, realizing that what had begun seconds before as nothing more than a desperate attempt to ease her frustration was now a plaintive request issued as much for his own sake as for hers. Perhaps more so. He threw one more glance toward the hallway, then lowered his voice again. _"Let me start over."_

This time, Sara was the one to look slightly stunned. She remained silent for a beat, and then nodded slowly. "Ok," she whispered, as though she had strength only for that one concession. An instant later, she turned her gaze away from him, to a fixed spot on the white wall above the clock, and Michael got the impression that she considered this conversation to be over. Her eyes must have eventually alighted upon the medical supply cabinet, jolting her back to her purpose-their purpose-in this room, because she moved swiftly in that direction. He watched as she prepared his insulin on the sterile tray, recognizing this sudden burst of activity for what it was, a chance to regain her composure. A chance to regain some sense of control. He conceded it willingly, silently studying the straight posture of her back as she worked, memorizing the tense angle of her shoulders and coveting the long sweep of her hair, almost crimson against the white of her coat.

When she turned back to him, her eyes were softer, missing a bit of the frantic glint that had met him at the door. She drew up a stool and wheeled toward him, tray in hand, and he offered her a smile. "So," he said pointedly. "I'm Michael, by the way."

Sara's eyes shot back up to his, something between a laugh and a sigh momentarily caught in the back of her throat, and then she searched his face in almost-suspicious assessment. Michael wondered if she was trying to decide whether he was making fun of her-he wasn't-and then she must have come to the same conclusion for herself, because her eyes crinkled almost indiscernibly at the corners in silent mirth.

"Scofield," she answered, almost experimentally. She smiled back. "I read your report."

He leaned forward on the exam table. "And you are?"

She hesitated again, but only for a beat. He watched as she dipped her head to one side, as though still studying him. As though still grappling with something difficult to gauge. Finally, she seemed to come to some conclusion. "Sara will do."

His eyes must have widened in surprise, because she laughed out-loud. The sight of her like that-genuinely amused, if only for a moment-combined with the knowledge that he could be the catalyst for such a reaction, caused a fist-sized lump to rise with alarming speed at the base of his chest. "Thank you," he whispered.

Traffic into downtown was particularly brutal that night, and by the time Sara pulled into the underground parking garage of her building, the digital clock on her dashboard already glowed 8:48 pm. _Someday,_ she thought, _she'd manage to get home in time to make dinner._ It would probably help if she ever clocked out of Fox River before seven.

Finally closing her front door behind her, she moved from the front of her apartment toward the back, flipping on lights and shuffling through her stack of mail as she went. In the kitchen, she stared into the open refrigerator for a long moment before reaching, without much enthusiasm, for a carton of day old Thai take-out.

Her phone rang just as the microwave announced the end of its two minute heating cycle. Reaching for a fork to stir the contents in the carton, she glanced at the caller ID before cradling her phone between her ear and shoulder. "Hi, Dad."

He didn't waste time on preliminaries. "The Pembroke Clinic is overstaffed at the moment, and you're hardly in any position to apply at Danesbury Outpatient, with their penchant to treat recovering prescription med addicts alongside the odd case of strep throat, but I'll keep looking."

Sara stared down at the Pahd King noodles congealing at the bottom of the cardboard carton. "Ok."

He must have heard the clipped tightness of the single word, the anger that shimmered, like heat radiating off a sidewalk in August, unseen but unchecked, all around it. "You promised," he reminded her sharply.

"I promised I'd carefully consider leaving Fox River if you found another position I felt was suitable for me," she countered levelly, straightening her shoulders as though he could actually see her holding her own. At the time, when she had been arguing for Lincoln Burrows in the suffocating warmth of her father's plush office, she had meant it. She still did. Being careful, being deliberate in considering all her options _…especially now…_ was something she should pursue whether Frank Tancredi had a hand in it or not.

 _But, of course, she wished he didn't._ "You better believe you will," he was saying now. "And I'll tell you who else should be job hunting. Henry Pope. I mean, my God, Sara, first the riot and this whole Burrows circus, and now I get news of an inmate managing to dig what amounts to the Washington Street Tunnel right under the guards' noses."

She leaned back against the counter on one elbow, letting her palm come up to support her forehead. "It seems they've got that all under control, Dad."

"That's bullshit, and you know it."

She took a breath, stabbing despondently at a noodle. "Well, not my job, right?"

"Not for long, anyway." His tone lowered. "And I'm not just spinning my wheels about that, Sara." She opened her mouth to argue, or maybe placate, she wasn't sure which, but he talked right over her anyway. "Listen, I'm going to be in Washington for the next week. This Burrows business didn't do me any favors. If you need something, you need to call Bruce."

 _I won't need anything,_ she thought fiercely. _I never do._ She knew it was a lie. She knew she had been begging him for something only he could provide less than 36 hours ago, and that he had the power to remind her of it, again and again, with every means at his disposal, for as long as he wished. Still, it made her feel marginally better to pretend otherwise.

After she hung up the phone, she sat in the living room with her dinner, but she was no longer hungry. She turned on the TV, but after flipping the channel ten times in less than a minute, she gave up trying to find something to hold her attention. _Something already was._

By the time she went to bed, she could no longer keep the thought of him at bay. She fell asleep with the feel of strong, competent hands framing her face. Of long, graceful fingers tangled in her hair, and in her dreams, they were in a room with no doors and no windows. The hands on the clock on the wall never moved, and when Michael kissed her, she didn't feel torn in two. She didn't feel the tug of responsibility or the fear of exposure. She didn't look over her shoulder. She just sank into him, letting him hold her. Letting him lift her. Letting him carry the weight of her life on his shoulders. _Just for tonight._


	3. Chapter 3

Year One, Month One

Day Three

The sky was darkly overcast as Sara pulled into the Fox River staff parking lot, and by the time she had walked halfway to the front entrance, it had begun to drizzle. She ducked her head down against the light spring rain and quickened her pace, tucking her chin into the folds of her scarf and wondering where exactly in the depths of her handbag she had stuck her umbrella. For a moment, she debated stopping and searching for it, but dismissed the idea out of hand; in the time it would take to unearth it, she could be inside.

And she would have been, if the commotion outside the guard break room hadn't caught her attention. Just yesterday, the entire building had been surrounded in florescent evidence tape and swarming with investigators from both from the D.O.C. and the state; she and Katie had watched the proceedings between patients from the window of her office while speculating further about Westmoreland and the decade of extra years that would no doubt be tacked onto the end of his sentence. Today, however, the tape was gone, and an outsourced work crew was already in place; those who were not conferring together over paper cups of coffee were hauling shrink-wrapped rolls of carpet and lumber into the room. Sara spotted Ron Jennings, Director of Prison Industry, talking out front with the driver of a cement truck, and before she knew quite why, she was veering from the path leading toward the prison entrance and cutting across the soggy lawn to the break room.

"Hey, Ron," she smiled, and she watched as he turned from the cab of the cement truck to face her in mild surprise.

"Dr. Tancredi." He returned her smile tiredly, and it occurred to Sara that as head of P.I., much of the fallout of this incident fell on his shoulders. "I didn't think I'd see you out here, surveying our little mess."

She found herself nodding in sympathy. Ron was a soft-spoken, good-natured man, and one of the few long-standing employees on the Fox River payroll who did not treat her differently-whether that be better or worse-for either her gender or her family tree. "Right," she agreed, pulling the lapels of her coat more tightly around her neck. "I know you've got your hands full." She looked past him through the open door of the break room. The hole was there-gaping-in the center of the cement floor, and the second she saw it with her own eyes, her first suspicions were confirmed. "There's no way Charles Westmoreland dug that out alone, right?"

Ron shook his head, glancing down at the clipboard in his hand and waving another construction truck to its allocated parking spot. "Of course not. There was an entire P.I. crew assigned to this room, but naturally, they're not talking. With a full confession from the old Lifer…" His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. He looked up from his clipboard again and slid a curious glance Sara's way. "But what can I help _you_ with?"

Sara lifted her hands in a vague sweep of dismissal. "Oh, no, I was just…wondering." She stole one more glance through the doorway. "Where does it lead?" she asked abruptly.

"What…the hole? Opens up on a sewer pipe. There's a whole jumbled mess of them underneath the grounds. This one skims the foundation of Psych Ward."

Sara's head snapped from the building to Ron's face. "Psych Ward?"

"Yeah." Ron laughed lightly, but the effort seemed a bit forced. "Crazy, huh?" He chuckled again, this time a bit more genuinely. "No pun intended." Sara forced her own tight smile. "Westmoreland's been around long enough to know there are easier ways of getting into the Whack Shack."

 _There are easier ways of getting into the Whack Shack._ Of course there were, and until just last week, Sara had been sure she had seen every last one of them. She stumbled away from the break room in a haze, arriving at her office after her first appointment, and by mid-morning, even though she was busy…even though she had appointment after appointment stacked up, she was having trouble concentrating. As she took temperatures and applied cold packs, her imagination ran rampant in an entirely different direction. In her mind, the image of the hole, jagged around the edges of thick concrete, merged with her memory of Michael, crouched and shattered, on the floor of Ad Seg. She played back the picture of his face-so distant-as he had laid his cheekbone to her knee, and the image of his eyes, both flat and desperate, staring unblinkingly at the gap of space between his bent leg and the cold floor. That scene-so stark and crisp in her recollection-flickered in the back of her mind as she worked over patients and against the backs of her eyelids when she paused, excusing herself to sit, for full minutes at time, in the isolation of her office.

By noon, however, Sara realized it wasn't the image of Michael broken that nagged at her. Not of Michael bereft of his reason. As alarming as that had been, and it had unnerved her more than she cared to admit, what was now, in hindsight, more unsettling was the memory of him later, sitting in Psych Ward whites, with the soft curve of a smile returned to his lips and a look of near triumph shining in the depth of his eyes. At the time (and it pained her to admit this even now), she had been a bit…well, _taken_ with the sight of him, even if she _had_ told herself is was only the evidence of him whole and healthy that had caused her to smile back a bit too widely and converse with him in a way that bordered on-oh, _more_ than bordered on-outright flirtation.

She thought now that perhaps, she should have been paying better attention. Or more accurately, that her attention should have been channeled in different directions than it had been. Perhaps, she should have been more aware of his mental status and motives and less aware of his eyes, or the way his mouth had quirked at one corner, and then the other, when he had looked up to see her standing in the doorway. Perhaps if she had done her job then, she wouldn't be sitting here now-still not doing her job-desperately trying to convince herself the hole below the break room had nothing to do with the Whack Shack, and that the Whack Shack didn't have everything to do with Michael Scofield.

For the third day in a row, Michael filed through the chow line at noon with his head down and his eyes trained solely on the tray he pushed along the metal runner before him with one long finger. Sucre stood next to him-Sucre always stood next to him-and he was grateful, but all the same, he could feel the eyes of Abruzzi and T-Bag hot on his back with the intensity of a physical touch, and when a hand actually did curve around the muscled plane of his shoulder, he spun to face the person it belonged to so fast the silverware on Sucre's plate went skidding across the linoleum with a dull cascade of metallic chimes.

He took one look at the kid standing before him and cursed darkly under his breath. "Move along, David. We've got nothing to say to each other."

"Don't do me like that, man. I gotta know. You gotta Plan B or whatever?"

Sucre stepped out in front of Michael and began walking toward a table. He clipped Tweener hard in the shoulder as he passed. The kid stumbled, but quickly recovered his balance. "He said get _moving,_ man."

Still, David hovered, and halfway to the bank of low tables, Michael whirled back again. This time, he stood less than an inch from Tweener's face; his tray pressed sharply into the kid's gut. "You better just forget you ever met us," he hissed. "There is _no_ Plan B, and just like the rest of us, you've got _nothing_ coming."

Without a backward glance, Michael closed the distance to the tables, and sat down heavily next to Sucre. Tweener gave up chase, slinking off to a far corner of the room, but all the same, Michael found he had completely lost his appetite. It was just as well. Five minutes hadn't gone by before he looked up to stare into a different pair of cool blue eyes. He forced his face to remain completely placid, to will the tiny muscle above his upper lip from twitching. He resolutely stabbed a green bean with the plastic tongs of his fork before looking back up.

"And what can I do for _you,_ John?"

"'Oh that I had wings like a dove! For then would I fly away.'"

Michael merely stabbed another bean.

"Are you familiar with the Psalms, Michael?" Abruzzi pressed.

"I'm familiar with bullshit."

Abruzzi leaned in close…so close, his breath fluttered the edges of the thin paper napkin resting on the surface of the table. "I am as the dove, Michael, in need of wings. And this bird needs to fly away home." He craned his head slightly to one side, so that his gaze fell directly on the plate of beans and slab of unidentifiable meat. "So why don't you just chew on that, for a while." He rose, walking abruptly from the table. After a few steps, he pivoted back. "But not for too long, my friend. Not for too long. I'm not entirely convinced that the best things come to those who wait."

Maybe Sara was the one with low blood-sugar, because after lunch, her head felt a bit clearer. Michael had asked her to start over, and out of respect for their fragile, hard-won truce, not to mention her own best interests, she decided it only made sense to do just that. She would perform her job, tend to his condition, and walk the line. She would be his physician, and she would treat him as the interesting, entertaining, intelligent patient he was, and nothing more. She would not question him as though she were entitled to the answers, as though she were emotionally or otherwise invested in his explanations. She wasn't. _She wouldn't._

She had just finished her lunch at her desk when she saw him led in. Unlike the day before, he and his guard were the only two people in the outer sick bay; in fact, besides Katie, tending to a textbook case of hypochondria in Exam 3, the entire infirmary was empty. Sara gave herself a moment-just long enough to toss her empty drink can into the recycling bin and brush one hand down the surface of her shirt-before walking out to bring him back to Exam 1 herself.

Less than a minute later, he was perched on the end of the exam table, legs swinging casually as he watched her prep the tray. "I appreciate the afternoon appointment," he said. "Quieter around here after lunch."

"Yes, well. Isn't that what they always advise for the shortest wait? Scheduling the first appointment after the lunch hour?"

Michael nodded. "Sure." If he smiled, too, behind her back, she didn't see. "And how did you fill _your_ lunch hour?"

She turned then and eyed him for a beat before focusing her attention back to the tray. She was much better off looking at the tray. "I ate lunch."

"Right." Now, she _knew_ he was smirking. She made it a point not to look around. "You're going to make me guess the details?" She reached for a cotton ball, catching a brief glimpse of his reflection in the glass door of the cabinet as she opened it before her. "I'm going to venture it wasn't meatloaf and green beans." He paused. He had caught her eyes in the glass. "Or wait…surely you're not the type to drink those smoothies with the ginseng or the bee pollen or the catnip or whatever-"

"Michael." She squelched the quick rise of laughter that threatened to curve to corners of her mouth, shutting the cabinet door with a definitive click.

He was silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was sober. "I thought we were starting over," he said.

She froze, all trace of her smile gone, willing herself to let his comment pass. Willing her jaw to remain tightly clenched. Willing _-damn it._ With a low rush of an exhale, she whirled from her post at the tray, quite literally turning on him, and simultaneously, turning her back on everything she'd just promised herself not five minutes before. "Then why is it I still feel I'm being played?"

"What?" By the look on his face, she might as well of just slapped him.

"Was it all an act?"

He was still reeling, but now, he stared at her with eyes that pleaded with an intensity that brought a quick flush to her face. If that wasn't remorse, he was a damn good actor. "In Ad Seg," she added sharply, but suddenly _-despairingly-_ she knew she meant so much more.

"Sara. I don't know what-"

"You didn't really have a breakdown, did you?"

"Well, I-"

"I was treating you in Psych Ward for something you didn't _-oh God."_ Sara brought one hand up to cover her mouth. "You're not a diabetic either, are you?"

She watched his face as she saw at least half a dozen possible responses flare to life and then fade in his mind. In the end, she had to acknowledge a grudging respect for the one he chose. "No."

Her eyes flew from his face back to the contents on the tray. The first thing her mind registered was the sharp, laying on its side, awaiting its measurement of insulin, and in her agitation, she almost turned and prepped it. Second nature, or perhaps simply long force of habit had her reaching for the handle of the small refrigerator that stored the medication to finish the task of drawing up the needle. Instead, her hands froze in mid-air, then fell back to her sides as though they'd been burned. She nearly laughed at her own actions, but caught herself, knowing the sound would have been forced and brittle, no doubt echoing off the concrete and metal surfaces of the quiet exam room. She turned and leveled her gaze on Michael, and suddenly, all her anger transferred toward him with dizzying speed. _"Get out."_

 _"_ _What?"_

"Get out of my exam room."

He sat, unmoving. He said nothing, but he stared straight at her, and she saw something shift in his eyes. It wasn't quite defiance, but nothing about his posture suggested surrender, either. It made her spring to her own defense. "What is your purpose here, Michael? If not for insulin?" She didn't allow him to respond. Instead, she stuffed the unused needle in the sharps disposal and tipped the remaining preparation for his daily shot into the trash can. "You can go."

"Sara."

"I said, _you can go."_

She stood at the corner of the small room, unmoving…unyielding…and watched as he reluctantly uncoiled his long legs from the footrest of the table to the floor, then rose. He made his way slowly to the door, and Sara knew he hoped she'd stop him. But she couldn't. How could she start over with someone with so many secrets, she could scarcely tell where they ended and he began? How was she expected to joke and smile with someone who didn't flinch at making a mockery of her job?

She told herself she had tried. As she forced herself to watch him walk from the room, she reminded herself she had truly done her best to put it all behind her, but with every day, with every step forward, the details of his past-sometimes in a trickle, sometimes in a landslide-continually rose up to block her path. To swim confusedly before her vision like pieces of a puzzle that resolutely wouldn't fit or numbers that simply wouldn't equate.

And yet…and yet even now, part of her longed for him to contradict her. Part of her longed to be wrong. But for better or for worse, as he disappeared down the long corridor, one lean shoulder flanking that of his guard, he didn't look back, and she told herself it was all the answer she needed. 

_Day 5_

 _It had only been a matter of time, of course._

He had assumed they'd try to spring their attack on him unawares; T-Bag was unpredictable as a cat pouncing, and Abruzzi never did anything without plenty of pomp, and so when they approached him, all their minions at their heels, by the bleachers in the yard, right out in the open, his first thought was of how well they had played him. It was also just about his last. They came at him from all sides, and Michael wasn't sure how many punches and kicks they got off, or how many seconds passed, before their scuffle caught the attention of the guards but suddenly, the rec yard alarm was blaring in his ears. The sound reverberated off the packed dirt where his head was pressed into his own hot, sticky blood, and that even after the shrill sound had echoed in his mind for what seemed like hours, the kicks and the shanks kept coming-to his stomach, to his back, to his head-until the sharp cracks of gunfire replaced the pounding cadence of boots to his skull. Dirt clouds rose up around him where the tower guards' shots sank into the soil like a ring around him, and then the men were scattering, and he could feel the area clearing, and then _…nothing._

Sara had refused to see Michael since the revelation of his true medical condition, or lack thereof, leaving it to Katie to monitor his blood sugar as he eased off the pugnac he had been self-administering. Later, she would find it ironic that her hand had been on the phone, waffling for what felt like the millionth time in the past two days over whether to report his deception (really, how much longer would she sit on this?) when the call came in. The receiver vibrated under her palm with the first ring, and she jumped, nearly knocking over her coffee before answering.

Ten seconds later she was pushing open the door into the outer sick bay, interceding the knot of guards that carried the limp form of Michael between them. She pointed them in the direction of Exam 4, then turned and called for Katie, shouting out an order for 10 cc of Codeine and a unit of A- before she had even seen Michael's full condition.

When she finally did, as they laid him flat across the exam table, it was as though she herself had been struck. She actually reeled backward in some vain attempt of isolating herself from the sight of his flesh, torn and bloody, every inch of his face puffy and purple with dark, angry bruising. Katie was working beside her, saying something in abject relief about surface wounds and reassuring the waiting guards that a medic-flight would not be needed, but as Sara cut Michael's thin shirt from his body, her nurse's words were not computing. Had she not already known his shirt was light blue, she never would have been able to guess the color through the soaked stains of dark red blood; she skimmed her fingers along the jut of his ribcage, assessing. She counted at least three broken, then palpated downward, assessing his stomach, his abdomen, and, after lifting the waist of his pants over the swell of his hips, the near-concave hollow of his pelvis. With him stripped to his boxer shorts before her, she was able to pinpoint the worst of it; a long, deep gash ran down his right side, from his lowest rib to his hip. Puncture wounds also trailed up and down his arms, where he'd no doubt flung them upward in protection of his head and neck.

He was unconscious, and Sara nearly felt so herself; she worked over him on autopilot, stemming blood flow, starting an IV and an emergency transfusion, and, once she was relatively certain he was stable, cleaning out each shallow flesh wound and checking each contusion for any distention she could have missed.

When she felt Katie's hand on her arm, pulling her away, Sara was shocked to see that over an hour had passed. She peeled off her gloves in a fog, then sank down heavily into a chair at the side of the exam table. Her head pounded, and her heart wasn't far behind, racing against the wall of her chest as though a trauma of twice the severity had just passed through her infirmary. She watched as Katie adjusted a cold pack under Michael's left cheekbone, then turned and eyed her. Something about what she saw must have prompted her to attempt a light joke.

"Working on the flesh wounds of a man this good looking should be classified as a conflict of interest," she smiled, but if she had been hoping to put Sara at ease, her statement had the opposite effect. Instantly, she felt any remaining blood drain from her face. __

 _A conflict of interest._ The phrase echoed in Sara's head for a full minute before the shock of it wore off. A conflict of interest, in its most precise definition, was exactly what Sara was experiencing. Michael was badly injured, yes, but not critically so. And yet, despite the reduced level of alert she should have assigned to his case, Sara had worked over him as though her life depended upon it. As though his had. Her palms were still sweating, her face still flushed with adrenaline, and even though she had treated worse cases than this a dozen times over, she still felt a level of anxiety she absolutely had not been able to define…until now.

She glanced at the big industrial clock on the far wall. 3:32 pm...still well over an hour before Katie would clock out. She stood abruptly. "I'm going to go out, get some air. Prepare a nice antibiotic cocktail for me to administer when I get back?" Katie nodded, and a minute later, Sara had grabbed her coat and car keys and retreated down the hallway to the staircase leading to the staff parking lot.

She got in her car and turned the engine, but never quite got around to shifting out of park. Instead, she sat very still for a long time; she felt safe here, encased in the cocoon of her car, completely alone, and while she had the means to flee at any moment, reversing out of her parking spot and leaving the prison ground behind altogether, she didn't. She was tired of running from things. She was tired of fighting. And after today, she knew she _couldn't_ fight this. She didn't have the arsenal, she didn't have the means, and she didn't have the heart.

When she stepped back into the infirmary, Katie was in the office, gathering her purse and keys. "He's still out cold," she told her. "You're keeping him overnight?"

Sara could only nod. Katie flipped through the staff calendar on the desk. "Dr. Brenson is on call for tonight. Want me to call him in?"

"Ah, no. That's alright." Katie turned to regard her a bit oddly, and Sara hastily tacked on an addendum. "I'll call."

 _She had no intention of calling anyone._ When Katie finally departed for home, Sara left the office for Exam 4. Michael was laying on his back, a stiff infirmary blanket pulled up to his waist, his mouth slightly open as he rasped in each breath shallowly but rhythmically, his lips split and still thinly lined with traces of dried blood. His eyes were closed, each lid puffy and purple with bruising. Sara looked down at him, and at the sight of him, raw and exposed against the starched whiteness of the sheet, her heart physically constricted. It ached in her chest like a betrayal; her mind was screaming that he'd prove to be just one more mistake on the long list in her life, and her every instinct was telling her to scrounge up even the smallest reserve of self-preservation. She felt like a traitor to her own cause, and yet, she had no desire to turn and walk away.

Instead, she pulled the rolling stool toward the table and sat. Reaching out toward him, she traced the thin veins running along the surface of his hand just below his IV, and she felt him stir. She weaved her fingers through his, and she felt him squeeze back faintly. She lay her cheek against the corner of the table, so that her image of Michael was turned on its head, and she watched him sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Year One, Month One

Day 6

Michael awoke to a pale sliver of gold filling his vision, illuminated between the cracks of his eyelids. He blinked once-painfully-and attempted to open his eyes wider. He managed another fraction of an inch; artificial light flooded his retinas, and he automatically closed them again. He tried again, opting for a cautious squint.

It was night, or perhaps, early, early morning. The lights in Fox River stayed on 24-hours a day, but they were dim now, casting weak shadows over the silent infirmary. He rose slightly, testing out the muscles in his torso and arms; pain shot instantly from a myriad of radiuses, and he dropped back down quickly. The gold in the foreground of his vision shifted from beneath the beam of the florescent light and fell into silhouette; it was rust-colored now. He reached out one hand and touched it. It fell in a silky curtain down to a shoulder, then an arm, then a hand, and _oh...could it be? Sara._

She jerked her head up immediately, startled. She must have been sleeping, her cheek resting on the mattress of his cot. He blinked again; the tips of her fingers were resting against his, a light entangling that Michael registered as deliberate. She seemed to regain awareness of the touch at the same time, because she moved to pull her fingers away from his abruptly as she sat up. Michael reached out with a speed he was faintly surprised to see he possessed, closing his hand over hers before she could pull it completely from his grasp.

She made no protest. Her arm went very still, and Michael could tell she was fully awake now; he could feel the sudden tension lacing her body, pooling in the stiffness governing her hand. Still, she made no comment, looking straight into his face as though willing her gaze there, and Michael was left with the impression that if any mention was made of their joined hands, they would both lose their nerve and their one tenuous point of connection at the same time.

"Um, tell me how you're feeling?"

He swallowed, looking into her eyes, inches from his. She looked tired, but also exhilarated in a slightly nervous, panicked sort of way. He was suddenly reminded of LJ, years younger, when he had news he was itching to share but was waiting impatiently to be asked.

"I'm feeling pretty good."

He watched her eyes widen slightly. "Really?"

"Well, no." He attempted a smile. It hurt. He lay his head back flat on the mattress and regarded her. "I'm sorry," he said, "for the diabetes. For the lies. I'm very sorry."

Her face remained carefully still, but against the backside of his hand, Michael felt her thumb begin to travel in a tentative arc toward his knuckle, then back again. She kept her eyes carefully on his face, and he stared back at her. Suddenly, he feared his apology was too all-encompassing. He wasn't sorry for _everything_. "It was real, Sara," he amended, hearing but unable to contain a thin trace of desperation undermining his words. "You and me. It's real." He hesitated, unsure which tact to take next.

Her thumb stilled for just a second before resuming its rhythmic strokes. "The kiss?" The two syllables were delivered in a choked rush, with the forced speed Michael equated with the ripping off of a band-aid; most likely they'd been on the tip of her tongue as well as the last thing she'd wanted to bring up, all at once. She looked faintly surprised to find she'd had the courage to say them at all. Still, her directness caught him off-guard.

For the first time since waking, he looked down at their joined hands. He lifted them, and now, finally, she followed his gaze to the epicenter of their entwined fingers. Slowly-it seemed he had no choice about that-he lifted her hand to his lips, and when she still made no move to pull away, he pressed her knuckles to his mouth. "The kiss was real."

He watched her shudder, her eyes fluttering closed for just a fraction of a second before opening again to study him. "That looks painful," she whispered, her eyes scanning his beaten face.

" _Is_ it painful?"

She sighed a bit ruefully; whether at the way he turned the question on her or because she already knew her answer, he wasn't sure. "No."

This time, her eyes closed on the single word and remained that way. Michael turned her hand over, opened it, and kissed the soft inside of her palm. He watched her bite her bottom lip, one tear pushing its way past her closed lid. He reached out and curved his free hand around the back of her neck, drawing her down to him, and she made a single, soft sound at the back of her throat as she complied, touching two fingers to his jaw line so, so softly before he captured her mouth with his. He kissed her very slowly, and yet still, he immediately felt her hesitancy. She pulled back against his embrace just enough that her lips barely grazed his, and he knew why. He knew it had nothing to do with rejection. "Sara," he implored. "Come _here."_

"It has to hurt," she protested, her words sinking into the corner of his mouth where her own hovered, and he leaned up on one elbow with a low grunt that only gave credence to her words.

"Shhh," he said, the sound vibrating against her lips, and amazingly, she did. She cradled his chin in one hand and kissed him back, hard enough to send duel shock waves of pain and pure, heady desire to race down his spine. Her craving for him drew all the oxygen straight from his brain, and within seconds, he was dizzy, gripping the back of her head with one hand and the side of the cot with the other, opening his mouth to trail his tongue across the fullness of her lips and then deeper, tasting her again and again while she met him stroke for stroke. When he finally pulled back, she was gasping for air herself, and he bend his head to kiss her neck and the hollow of her throat.

"We need to stop," she said half-heartedly, but she made no attempt to push him away. Her own hands were on his shoulders, both to steady him and hold him close against her. Her mouth traveled to his ear and then, very deliberately, pressed to the single mole of his temple. He bent forward, resting his head-his pounding head-against her chest.

"Yes," he agreed. He reached for her hand again and kissed her wrist, her forearm, her elbow. She laughed. The sound was a bit too breathless; she still seemed vaguely panicked. He wondered if she was thinking of the night guards, making their rounds, and then he caught the look of clouded conflict on her face, and he knew she was. They would be walking their beat, passing the outer doors of the sick bay at least every ten minutes all night long, and they both knew that while there was nothing to prompt them to turn off-course and enter the infirmary proper, there was nothing to stop them, either.

He drew back, and with a shaky sigh, Sara stood and turned toward the cupboard of first aid supplies. He watched her walk away, which did nothing to still his heart from hammering in his chest, then return to his side with compresses and antiseptic. He smiled at her, and then her hands were skimming his face again, and while they still made his pulse spike, this time they were accompanied by the sharp sting of peroxide.

"I'm sorry," she said, and he tried not to wince, bracing one hand around the firm curve of muscle above her knee as she sat and worked. He felt her leg instantly flex and then relax under his touch as she dabbed at the various cuts along his face. She ran one hand softly over the arc of his head as she worked, her fingernails trailing over his scalp, and he was just laying back down, turning toward her on the cot so she could inspect the gash to his side when he heard the distant sound of keys jangling.

He paused, holding up one hand. "Wait." The both stilled, and they both heard it-what they had been half-expecting for minutes now. Footsteps. Keys clanging against a metal ring in symmetry. Murmured conversation that grew louder by the second. He pulled his hand off her leg.

The voices of the guards were close enough to hear snippets of their discussion-something about sick time and a niece's graduation-and then they began to recede, the clang-clang-clang of the keys becoming fainter with every second.

When Michael looked back up to Sara's face, it was sober. She seemed to have allowed the guards to intrude into her mind and mood along with the outer reaches of her infirmary. She glanced into his eyes briefly, then down at the wound to his torso. "Is this going to happen again?" she asked softly.

He wasn't sure if she was referring to the beating or the night watch, but it didn't matter. The answer was the same, either way. "Yes."

"I could have you recommended for-"

"No."

She didn't argue. She pressed one hand to his shoulder to guide him back down flat on the cot. The tips of her hair tickled his bare stomach as she bent over his gash. She frowned, and with her face inches from his own, it was all he could do not to reach up and draw her down flush against him again. He swallowed, clearing his throat. "Did you stitch that?" he asked her, more for the purpose of distraction than anything else.

"Twenty-seven sutures," she answered, and he caught the faint hint of pride in her words. He groped for her hand, stilling it against his wound.

"It'll be fine, out there-" he nodded toward the outer doors-"with you in here."

She squeezed his hand in return, but her voice took on a sharper edge when she answered. "I have no interest in a ring-side seat." He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. "I've been here longer than you have, Michael. And I can tell you that everyone has something they want. You only have to find out what it is-"

His voice was soft. "I know what it is."

She looked at him in surprise. "Abruzzi?" He watched her eyes shift from hope to resignation. Her own voice dropped an octave. "But you won't give it to him."

He remained silent, and when she sighed, the sound cut him to the core. "This is not your burden," he argued. "None of it is. Laying this at your feet serves only my purpose and none of your own." He reached up to cup her face, and literally felt his heart constrict in his chest when she hesitated only an instant before sinking into his touch.

He turned his lips into the crest of her ear. "Someday," he whispered, "when these walls fall away, and you're not governed by the conditions of your job, I'll tell you everything you want to know." She swallowed once; he felt her jaw retract slightly under his palm.

"Over dinner?" she prompted, releasing a shudder of a low laugh, and it took him a moment to catch her meaning. He stroked the side of her cheek with his thumb, his lips tickling her ear when he answered.

"Let's start with drinks, and just see how it goes."

She lifted her chin abruptly to regard him, and then smirked at the glint in his eyes. "You wouldn't be so cocky if you could see how you look right now," she teased, but his smile didn't lessen.

"It gives me street cred." He watched Sara smile more broadly, then was forced to clench his own jaw as she trailed one finger down his chest, following a thin line of ink.

"That and the tats?"

"Nah." Her finger was revolving in a slow circular pattern midway to the base of his abdomen, and he shifted, drawing his own hand up to rest high on her thigh, two fingers brushing softly against the hollow of her hip. Her eyes flicked from his tattoo to his hand, but he only splayed his fingers out against the thin cotton of her pants a bit more firmly. _Fair was fair._ "The tats are there solely to impress _you." And maybe they were, now._

She smiled again, just faintly, and the expression was so self-consciously guileless, so endearing, it emboldened him enough to lean forward and kiss her again. This time, he took her by surprise, and he saw her eyebrows rise slightly before she relaxed against him, bringing her hand up to curve around the nape of his neck. His mouth sought hers more confidently this time, and they fell almost effortlessly into a more practiced balance of kisses both deep and shallow, of tasting and consuming and caressing. The clock on the wall clicked forward in a steady beat that seemed to mark their tempo like a metronome, but all the same, Michael had no idea how much time had passed before they once again heard the predictable noises that marked the scheduled intrusion of keys and footsteps. Expected or not, the sound screamed in his ear like the blare of an alarm, and he pulled back from her with a jump.

Sara looked as disoriented as Michael felt, and they sat quite still, breathing a bit hard, waiting for the footsteps to come nearer and then recede. When instead, a doorknob jiggled and turned, Sara's eyes widened in a quick rise of panic. She sprang up and crossed the room to the hallway while Michael forced himself to lay back down on the cot. A second later, he heard the guard speak.

"You're in early today, Doctor."

Michael turned to finally study the clock. _6:10 am._

Sara's voice-unbelievably the epitome of calm-carried back from the entrance to the infirmary. "Late, more like," she replied evenly. "I'm afraid this was an all-nighter."

"Oh, you've got trouble in there?" His curiosity sounded piqued.

"No," she answered quickly. "Nothing like that."

"Huh, well, nothing quite like overtime hours, right?"

"Ah, yeah." She laughed lightly, and Michael could picture the smile she was no doubt offering the night guard. "Right."

A few seconds later, the keys began their rhythmic jangle as the guard moved on, and Sara walked back in the room. Michael noticed she glanced straight at the clock as well, then settled back down a bit shakily on the stool next to his cot.

"What time does the day staff arrive?" he asked her.

She looked back at the clock, as though she'd already forgotten the time. Maybe she had. "7 am."

"You'll go home?" he prompted. "Get some sleep?"

She shifted her gaze back onto his face. "No. No, I'm fine."

"Sara." She resolutely refused to look at him, and he touched the curve of her elbow. "We only have a few minutes to speak freely," he reminded her gently. She looked over at him then. "I'll still be here when you get back," he smiled, "unless you were planning to spring me out of here?"

He watched her laugh, her free hand coming up to brush away his suggestion. The light from the morning sun was just breaking through the thick-paned windows, and it suddenly softened the stark industrial sheen of the room. For just one instant, the light caught her face, and Sara looked somehow filtered, as though he were seeing her in some sort of disorienting flashback. She looked just like any other girl he might date, in another time. In another life. But then a shadow fell and the room was recast in sharp silhouette, but to Michael, that was fine, because he wasn't entirely sure he _wanted_ it to be another life, and Sara definitely wasn't any other girl.

Some time later, they heard another shifting of keys on a chain, and then the doorknob turning once again. Sara walked to the door to place Michael's chart in the slot just as her nurse Katie walked past the exam room to deposit her purse and coat in the office. She looked into the room and smiled pleasantly, and when she resumed down the hall, Sara called after her that she'd be right there.

She turned abruptly and bent down over Michael under the pretext of checking his dressing. He forced his hands to remain flat on the mattress on either side of him as she came close enough to feel her breath on his cheek. "Go get rest," he whispered.

She crossed her own arms tight against her chest, and nodded. "I'll be back soon." At the doorway, she turned and looked back at Michael, her face somehow both stoic and painfully fragile at the same time. As she disappeared down the hallway, he'd never felt so helpless or so trapped in all his life.

Sara couldn't sleep, which didn't come as any sort of surprise. Her bedroom shades did a poor job of blocking out the mid-morning sunlight, and as she lay wide awake under her single sheet, she stared up at the slats of light stretching across her ceiling and tried to pinpoint the exact ratio of elation to terror coursing through her heart.

She settled on something in the vicinity of 60/40. She closed her eyes, but all she saw was Michael's face, juxtaposed against the sound of clanging keys and footsteps. Of prison bars and blue eyes and his mouth, warm, and firm, and so bruised _oh_ …if she actually thought she'd get any sleep today, she was crazy.

She had fallen for bad guys before. Plenty of them, and although she knew the situation she found herself jumping into now was above and beyond the average motorcycle fixation, she felt she should at least be unsurprised. Self-destruction was something of a forte of hers. But the thing was, Michael _wasn't_ a bad guy. He was quite possibly the polar opposite of every man she had dated in the past decade, and the irony that she had found him behind bars was enough to make her head spin. The truth was, Michael _himself_ scared her as much as the reality of what they were doing.

And what _were_ they doing? Nothing about jeopardizing her job, not to mention her professional pride and Michael's good behavior record suggested a casual fling. Even given her penchant for incurring risk, she wasn't in the habit of trading her integrity for a mere kiss. Or two…or three. So that meant either her self esteem had plummeted to a new low, or it hadn't been a mere kiss. This wasn't a mere fling.

She gave up on sleep, and settled instead for a cup of tea with a sandwich for lunch, followed by a hot shower. As she redressed for work, it was with a sense of near fatalistic resignation that she found herself selecting each article of clothing with entirely too much care; she suddenly seemed to have nothing adequate in her closet. She fumbled with her shoes and the buttons on her shirt in a new-found hurry to get back the infirmary. Even while a low dread built in the pit of her stomach-where could this possibly lead? Where would it end?-all she could think about was getting back to the side of his cot. Of seeing his eyes shine at the sight of her. Of watching him watch her.

As she pulled back into the Fox River parking lot, she was smiling.

He was sitting up when she entered his exam room. An orderly was working in one corner, stocking a cabinet with clean towels.

She felt Michael's gaze, and its penetrating intensity was just as she had anticipated. It made her feel just as she had hoped. "Michael," she acknowledged.

"Doctor." His voice slid over her in a low rumble, and she was fairly sure she blushed. "Good afternoon."

Her lips twitched upward. "Yes, well. Yes."

He smiled outright, then folded his hands together in a manner that drew her gaze straight to his lap and the interlacing grace of his long fingers. She swallowed. He watched.

She pulled her eyes up to his face. "The eye looks better," she offered lightly, and he shook his head.

"Your nurse gave me a mirror earlier."

"Ah. Well, in that case, you can imagine how bad it looked last night."

"I'd rather not." His tone was carefully passive, but his eyes bore into her with such suggestive reference she nearly opened her mouth to shush him before she realized he'd said nothing forward at all. She'd had no idea so much could be said with a look alone.

"Is your side bothering you?"

He maintained eye-contact. "Not much."

"Let's take a look?" Her voice shook very slightly, and she cursed herself inwardly.

The orderly shut the cabinet with a loud click, and Sara looked determinedly at the gash in Michael's torso until she heard his footsteps recede back into the sick bay. "You should stay lying down. Issue a complaint or two," she told him. "I can only keep you here as long as I can justify it."

"How long?" he asked. His suggestive tone was absent now.

She frowned. "Two days? Maybe three?"

"After that I'll have to run into a brick wall or step on another set of garden shears to get back in," he said softly. "Katie will think I'm the clumsiest prisoner alive."

Sara turned, reaching for his chart on the counter and flipping through it a bit absently. All at once, she was feeling distinctly shy. She had wondered when they'd get around to this particular discussion. She felt Michael's eyes on her as she looked resolutely down at his chart, knowing full well that she look inexplicably flustered. "Well, no," she admitted. "You could still come in daily for your shot."

He clearly didn't understand. "But you must have reported that days ago."

She ventured a glance from over the top of his file. "Well, no." She paused just briefly. "I'd been busy."

He eyed her a bit incredulously, a hint of a smile playing about his lips, and eventually, she gave in, meeting his gaze with an air of resignation; she could feel her face flushing. "On paper, you're still a Type 1 Diabetic. Katie knows only that you had been taking pugnac in conjunction with your insulin, but not why. The Pope knows nothing of your deception. Neither does the D.O.C."

He reached suddenly for her hand. She had slid away slightly on the stool, but his reach was long, and he made contact with her wrist, encircling it with his palm. She froze, and he dropped it instantly. He appeared to be the flustered one now. "Wait, Sara," he whispered. "What you're talking about is more than shuffling paperwork. I can't _take_ insulin any longer. I'd need to be injected with-"

"Saline."

Michael swallowed, his face a study of intensity. "You'd be altering patient reports."

She looked down, speaking as quietly as she could. "I've thought about this." And God help her, she _had_.

"Not enough."

Her head snapped up. "More than enough." She leaned in closer. She wanted to touch him so badly it left her aching. "I can prepare your syringes ahead of time, and store them in the refrigerator. Saline is clear and odorless, just like insul-Michael, what?"

He was shaking his head. His jaw was clenched, and his brow was practically split down the middle where it furrowed violently. "I don't want you lying for me. I want you free of all of this. Above it all."

"Above _you,_ then. Free of you."

"No. That's not what I-"

His eyes flicked upward, and Sara followed his gaze to Katie popping her head around the edge of the doorway. "Sorry to interrupt. I need you in Exam 2."

"Right. Be right there." Sara turned, spinning the stool swiftly to grab the antiseptic she'd come to apply in the first place. "Michael-"

She watched him bite his bottom lip as the gauze made contact with his skin, but she knew it wasn't the sting of the alcohol that had him wincing. "Listen to me," he interrupted, but she cut him off.

"Don't shut me out-"

Katie returned with a swiftness that made them both flinch. "Sara, we've got a bit of an issue in 2."

"Sorry, Katie. I'm coming."

Michael moved to sit up again. "Sara-"

Down the hallway, some sort of scuffle was breaking out. A patient wailed, followed by Katie's voice again. _"Sara?"_

She turned quickly toward the sound, then back to the cot, then away again. _"Damn it."_

"Go."

"I'm sorry."

"Go."

She went.

Day 8

Neither of them could pretend any longer that he wasn't ready to return to Gen Pop. Michael's face was healed for the most part, and he had to concede that the deep cut in his side was closing nicely. Sara sat at the counter filling out his discharge papers while Katie took a final set of vitals. They hadn't had opportunity to further discuss the lengths she was willing to go to maintain his usual infirmary schedule, and Michael had just come to the conclusion that Sara had included her nurse in the mix this morning for the convenience of a third-party when she dismissed her from the room.

When Katie had pulled the door partially closed behind her, Sara turned, the paperwork abandoned. "I'd like to keep your insulin appointments at 1 pm daily," she said. She spoke matter-of-factly, but was betrayed by the slight quiver of her jaw as she regarded him.

He recognized her words for what they were, a question, not a command, and Michael found himself at a loss for words. She could have railroaded him. She could have kept Katie in the room and issued him his appointment time without the least input from him. She could have sent a guard to yank him from the yard at 1 pm tomorrow with nothing more than a phone call.

Instead, in a single, seemingly simple action, she had empowered him. They were alone, and he was free to protest. He was free to disagree. She was turned fully toward him, her face a study of abject respect, and he was so touched, he couldn't argue. _Damn, she was good._

"1 pm sounds fine," he said, and was rewarded by the sight of the tension leaving her shoulders and neck as she rose with the hint of a smile playing about her lips.

"Alright then," she said, in an attempt at casual cheeriness that made him smile broadly back at her. "Til tomorrow."

She stood just inches from him, and in a silent plea he wished with all his heart she could hear, he thought of how much he longed to draw her against him. How good her hair would feel threaded through his fingers, and perfectly he knew her mouth would fit underneath his.

"Til tomorrow," he answered, and he was proud of the steady inflection of his voice as he forced himself to walk from the room.


	5. Chapter 5

Day Nine

She'd been jumpy all morning. Now, with the hands of the clock emfinally/em creeping toward 1 pm, she found herself feeling downright nervous. Her palms were damp with sweat as she tidied her desk after lunch, her heart pounding so hard in her chest she half-expected Katie to turn around at any moment, interrupted from the task of cataloguing patient files by the sound of it thumping ridiculously against her ribcage.

In five minutes time-no, four minutes now-he would appear with his C.O. in the hallway, and the anticipation-both terrifying and exhilarating-was building in the pit of her stomach, lying in wait like both a reunion she desperately looked forward to and an announcement she dreaded But that was ludicrous, she told herself. She had nothing to dread, nor, of course, anything to which to assign disproportionate eagerness. She had just seen him yesterday, discharging him back to Gen Pop. She'd see him tomorrow, for that matter, as well as the next day and the day after that…just as she had seen him nearly every day of his stint in Fox River. She shook her head as though to clear it. He would appear in the hallway, she repeated to herself, and her role would be to do nothing more than she had done every other day for the past several. Nothing more, perhaps, but definitely something significantly less.

She was about to pass saline off as insulin, and it was this deception they were about to embark upon that was panicking her. She knew that, of course. The heady thrill of a new relationship was literally swimming before her eyes as she glanced again at the clock, but the tipsy excitement she should have felt-wanted to feel so badly-was just out of reach, muted and dimmed by a tension born of perpetuating a fraud. Joy and guilt remained starkly at odds within the confines of her mind, and as she watched darkly as the minute-hand aligned with the top of the hour, she took a deep breath, blowing the air out of her nose so violently that this time, Katie did turn to regard her.

Sara forced a smile. It had been difficult enough explaining away the pugnac. The last thing she needed was Katie suspectingem she/em had anything to do with Michael's creative pharmaceutical hobbies, past or present. "Sure," she began, then immediately changed course. She might as well offer Katie something she stood a chance of selling. "Distracted, actually. Just one of those days my mind feels a million miles away."

Katie smiled back. "I could use a vacation myself," she agreed. "Somewhere warm…preferably with sunsets and ocean vistas." She chuckled, then nodded her head toward the office window. "Speaking of pleasant views…"

Sara turned, and even though she already knew who she'd see, the sight of Michael walking into the sick bay left her faintly dizzy. He looked a bit charged himself, his eyes quite nearly cobalt against the pale blue of his shirt as his gaze sought hers through the glass. Sara looked down quickly, but all the same, the discreet hum of exhilaration radiating from him seemed to cut right through her.

She knew she needed to answer Katie. She needed to laugh, or say something witty, or preferably both, but absolutely nothing was rising to the surface of her brain. Instead, she stood in place numbly, fighting against a disorienting current of attraction and restless misgiving, and only when she distantly heard someone say something flippant about harassment charges did she realize the voice was her own. She managed an awkward laugh, then fumbled the catch on the file drawer as she reached for Michael's chart, all the while acutely aware that she had just said something that was no doubt profoundly stupid. When, to her relief, her fingers finally closed around the manila file, she straightened abruptly and made for the exit with only a hurried wave in Katie's direction.

 _First, do no harm._ She prepared his tray with shaky hands. Only a matter of days ago, she had sat next to Lincoln and told him she hadn't gone to medical school in order to convince the state he was healthy enough to kill. Now, pulling her stool over to sit next to Michael, she was also pretty certain she hadn't given up over six years of her life just to inject a healthy man with pseudo medication, every day, for what may amount to five full years. And yet, here they were.

But who was she harming, really? Certainly not Michael…the saline would flow through his veins as harmlessly as water. Not Katie, or even The Pope-what did he care if Michael Scofield spent ten minutes of every day staring at the prison doctor? She was only harming herself of course, or at least risking harm, but the truth was, it was almost comforting to know that some things never changed. Because she _wanted_ to do this. The idea of Michael not here, every day, was disturbingly bleak, and the knowledge that he disliked her dirtying of her hands only made her want to help himem-help them-/emeven more.

They didn't talk as Sara prepared the syringe. Katie had been called into the sick bay and the C.O. had wandered off to chat with an orderly, and the knowledge that they were as alone as they were likely to get pressed urgently at the back of her mind. She wanted to say something. Each second that passed while she fiddled with the saline and stared down at the tray was one they'd never get back, and twice, she opened her mouth to speak, but each time, the words were lost somewhere near the back of her throat. She watched Michael flick a glance toward the empty hallway, then shift on his seat, and suddenly the gravity of what they were doing seemed to increase ten-fold.

They were at a juncture, and for the first time, Sara felt she had a choice. Michael was no longer acting. She was no longer being played. The moment she slid the needle under his skin today, their relationship would shift irrevocably from circumstantial to intentional. Michael had said it was real, and it _felt_ real, in both its careful deliberation and the consequences that seemed to lurk just out of sight.

As though she'd spoken aloud, he looked up from the tray to her face. He didn't touch her, but she felt the shift of his attention with a jolt as physical as if he had. "You don't have to do this," he whispered.

She didn't answer. She tapped the syringe, then reached for his hand. He didn't pull back, but a single muscle along his bicep jumped then relaxed as she turned his wrist to expose the underside of his arm. Slowly, she trailed two fingers up his skin to find a vein, and when she felt it pulsing beneath the pad of her forefinger, she finally looked up. She kept her eyes steady on his as she slid the needle into his arm in one smooth motion.

She half-expected to regret it. She had waited all the previous afternoon for the rush of remorse to overtake her, to burst like some sort of delayed bomb in her brain, detonated hours after it was due. Or maybe, she had mused, the guilt would manifest itself like aftershocks, catching her off-guard long after she felt the danger had passed. Either way, she imagined she would be otherwise occupied, standing perhaps at the fridge, or maybe at her door, her key in the lock, when reality hit and the bottom dropped out from under her. She waited for the catalyst that would finally cause the words-Oh God, what have I started?-to cross her lips, but even after leaving for home, even through dinner and a hurried catch-up on patient files, through several phone calls and late-night TV, it didn't come.

She slept like a baby, and she didn't dream. In the morning, she awoke before her alarm, and in the blurry haze between consciousness and sleep, she experienced that vague stirring of good news…of something she was looking forward to but had momentarily forgotten during the night. It took her a beat to come up with it, and then…oh! _Michael._ She rolled over, pressing her face into her pillow as she blushed.

Day 10

24 hours after their first foray into deception, Michael told himself he was prepared for any emotion she threw his way. On the long walk to the infirmary, he braced himself for anger. Or worse, for regret. She'd had time for deliberation, after all, and he fully expected to find her with a well-honed argument or a tactful rejection.

He _didn't_ expect to find her already waiting for him in Exam 3. Unbelievably, she seemed shy. She greeted him somewhat awkwardly, mumbling something about needing to clean out a supply cupboard before his arrival, and he got the impression that despite the announcement of his presence by his C.O., he had somehow startled her. She attempted to regain her composure, smiling before offering him a seat with a wave of her hand and an odd little laugh, and Michael released a sigh of relief. Her actions were transparent enough to finally loosen the slow squeeze of anxiety that had gripped his heart since leaving this room the same time yesterday; Sara was a bit unsettled, but she certainly didn't have the look of woman about to reject him.

He crossed to the exam table and sat, watching her until she seemed to gather herself, abandoning the disorderly rows of gauze and 4x4s unceremoniously before chancing a quick assessment of his face. He took the opportunity to return her earlier smile, eager to reassure her. "It's fine," he mouthed. "Are you ok?"

She nodded, but her eyes widened a bit, and he was desperate to say more, desperate to know precisely where she stood today, but the infirmary was crowded with a wave of new transfers needing physicals; almost a dozen inmates waited impatiently, spilling out into the hallway and talking and milling around just beyond the open door.

Sara crossed the room and pulled the privacy screen from its place in the corner, angling it slightly around Michael so that it blocked the view of the door. emPerhaps,/em he thought with a slight shift of his head,em she wasn't feeling so shy after all.

"High traffic area today," he noted carefully in a regular speaking voice.

"That's why we have this, I guess." Her inflection was casual, but he could hear the slight tremor of nerves behind it. He decided to take a chance.

"Is it?" he asked smoothly. "Too bad."

She whipped her head around and rewarded him with a slightly breathless laugh. The sound seemed to shoot straight to his gut and then to…well… _damn_. The screen muted the light from the hallway as well as the noise, and as Sara stepped around it to sit beside him, reaching for her tray, she appeared somewhat filtered. Her hair spilled around her face and her lab coat softened to a light cream against her skin. The overhead lighting was strained through the screen like a sieve, casting them both in a shadow of such instantly created intimacy that Michael could scarcely breathe for fear of disturbing the delicate tableau.

Everything he planned to ask was swept away on a quick current of affection and desire. He shifted closer toward her, feeling wonderfully reckless as he reached for her, but once he was close enough to see the quickening of her pulse at the base of her neck, she suddenly appeared as delicate as bone china. _She wasn't…he knew she wasn't…_ but he couldn't do this to her, not with an entire busload of convicts ten feet away.

"Sara," he finally said simply, forcing his hands to rest back on the chilled sides of the table, and he wished she could know how incredibly badly he wanted to touch her. She was looking at him as though he might instantly disappear, and it was of some consolation to suspect that sheem did /emknow, perhaps all too well. He formed her name again, and this time, his voice was so choked, he wondered if she had heard the two syllables at all. But she smiled back shakily, almost as though she were on the brink of tears herself, and then she was curling her fingers over his for the brief seconds it took to expose his vein and administer his shot.

"I know,"/em she breathed, and then their time was up.

Day 11

He was standing out in the yard at rec time when he saw her emerge from the side entrance. Beside him, Sucre was saying something about Maricruz and a visitation she had missed, but his words dissipated like a trail of vapor to the far recesses of Michael's mind as he watched her walk toward her It must be the start of her lunch hour. /emHe wandered in the direction of the fence, leaving Sucre to complain to someone else, all the while willing her to look over. Willing her to see him.

She did. Just as she skirted the fence, she looked over, and then immediately back down at her feet as her face blushed Damn./em She did it to him again…a surge of pleasure was already traveling the length of his spine. She looked right back up, tucking a stray strand of hair back behind one ear as she veered from her course, cutting toward the fence.

"Hey." The day was warm; she had shed not only her lab coat but the light jacket he had become accustomed to seeing her wear as well. He took in her thin t-shirt, a soft green against her pale skin. For a moment, he considered discretion, then opted for the opposite course of action. He allowed his eyes to follow the jut of the V-neck where it traveled down then back up. She flushed anew, and he crossed his arms over his chest, trying very hard not to appear smug. "Hey," he returned, rocking back slightly on his heels.

"Green suits you, you know."

She blinked, then cocked her head to one side, smiling. "Is that your idea of flirtation, Scofield? Because if so, I've heard better."

He grinned back, raising both eyebrows to feign innocence. "Just calling it like I see it, Doc." He deliberately lowered his eyes back to her neckline playfully, feeling his pulse quicken as she laughed, the sound a bit heady and decidedly more girlish than he suspected she intended.

"I'll see you in an hour," she managed, turning away.

He lowered his voice. "Yes, you will."

She spun back with a fresh laugh that ended on an incredulous snort. This time, he was pretty sure her amusement was solely at his expense. "What sort of come-on is _that_ supposed to be?"

"Sorry," he answered quickly. Suddenly, his own face felt a bit hot. "I'm rusty. I'll work on it."

"I should think so."

Day 14

He hadn't seen her in two days, and he'd never been so glad to see a Monday roll around. The weekend had crawled by, broken up only by a tense five minutes on Saturday afternoon during which he had been forced to wait in mounting stress as the weekend physician skimmed the note Sara had written in his chart before finally reaching into the exam room fridge to pull out his prepared syringe. Now, he shifted from foot to foot, waiting impatiently for her to come around the corner. She was in a great mood. He knew it the second he laid eyes on her; she paused in the doorway to Exam 2 to throw some joke back over her shoulder to Katie, then entered the room with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth that made her look about sixteen and made Michael instantly long to know _exactl_ y what she was thinking.

"Mr. Scofield," she greeted as she crossed the room toward the cabinets.

"Doctor," he returned casually. They were getting the hang of this. He watched as the C.O. outside the open door shuffled down the hallway in search of coffee, then swung his gaze back to Sara, letting his eyes linger unabashedly as she turned her back to him, reaching for the syringe and sterile sharp. She turned in time to catch him staring, and shot him a look that was perhaps one-fourth mild reproach and three-fourths blatant invitation, and the combination was so enticing Michael found himself literally squirming in his seat.

He was in a pretty damn good mood himself. He had met with Veronica just that morning, and according to her, Lincoln was scheduled to be transferred to Gen Pop some time today. "My brother is coming back to A Wing," he told Sara conversationally as she pulled the stool up next to him.

She nodded, her eyes warm as they caught his own, and he couldn't help feeling just a bit She already knew./em He wasn't surprised, but for whatever reason, he had been looking forward to being the one to break this news. He quickly tried to swallow his disappointment; he'd already served more than enough time in prison to become accustomed to the complete lack of control that permeated his life.

Her eyes flicked quickly across his face and back down to the prepared tray on its stand beside her. She read him like a book. "I wasn't given any details," she said. "Tell me what you know?"

"The truth was, he didn't have much more information himself, but as he relayed the few facts Veronica had given him, he found himself deeply touched by the gesture. He let her roll up his sleeve-it took longer that way-then snagged her gaze and held it as she slid the needle into his arm and injected him. He watched her bite her lower lip, her expression sobering somewhat, but her eyes were still lit with a subtle mischief when she stood, tossing the needle in the sharps receptacle. Directly behind her, the C.O. who had escorted Michael in wandered back down the hall and sat down heavily in a metal chair outside the door, steaming coffee cup in hand.

Sara saw him, too. Her shoulders stiffened just slightly, but when she turned back to Michael, her tone remained determinedly cheery over a barely discernable layer of anxiety. "I need a pulse," she said, beckoning to him with both hands, her fingers flicking abruptly upward. He blinked, his mind racing in about twenty different directions before noticing the stethoscope in her hand and realizing she was asking. "Oh," he said stupidly. "Up?" He tugged at the hem of his sweatshirt.

"Um, off? Actually?" His eyes widened slightly, and she looked away quickly, nearly smiling before overcompensating with an air of clipped professionalism. "If you don't mind."

He smirked. "I don't mind." In one smooth motion, he pulled the sweatshirt up and over his head.

"Thanks."

"Whatever you need."

She looked at him quickly, but must have decided to let the comment pass. Or, perhaps, he preferred to think, she had no comeback at her disposal. Either way, he was denied any further opportunity to gloat; her hand curved over his bare shoulder and as she leaned over him, listening to his heartbeat, and any other commentary was whisked from his brain. Her palm seemed to heat his flesh so effectively he wondered if it burned her skin as thoroughly as it burned his. At very least, she had be hearing a pulse that more closely mimicked a runner's mid-marathon than the steady thump that was to be expected.

He was right. She paused, frowning slightly, then lifted the drum of the stethoscope and slid it into a slightly altered position. The tips of her fingers barely grazed his clavicle, and when she leaned forward again, the curtain of her hair fell forward, tickling his cheek. She pulled it back with her free hand with a shaky laugh. "I need you to relax," she said.

He spoke into the curve of her neck as she leaned in to listen again, so close his lips nearly touched her collarbone. "In that case, I'll needem you /emto take at least three steps back," he whispered, and he felt her still. "Or, you could cut whatever number you're getting in about half, and call it good."

She smiled, sliding the stethoscope back around her neck and rolling back away on the stool with a gentle push of one foot against the linoleum. "It doesn't really matter. I left your chart in the hall anyway."

He literally felt himself do a double-take. "Wait…you didn't need to get my vital signs at all today?"

"No."

"I see." He paused, considering. "Um…thank you?"

Sara turned away, but not fast enough to hide the way the corners of her mouth twitched upward. "No," she said breezily. "Thank _you."_

He tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a choked cough. She looked back, curving one eyebrow up at him. "Ok?"

He forced a deep breath in and out. "You certainly emare/em in a good mood today," he observed dryly.

She tried to feign mild surprise, then dropped the pretense. Her face sobered. "Well, it occurred to me," she began, "this news about Lincoln? It's good for you, too." She hesitated. "I imagine an ally in Gen Pop will be welcome." She had crossed the room as she spoke, and now, stood back before him, her eyes intent on the lingering yellowed outlines of his bruises.

They hadn't had opportunity to further discuss the issue of the ongoing abuse he suffered at the hands of the former P.I. crew, but he knew his ever-present smattering of wounds, both healing and fresh, had not escaped her attention. There wasn't time to delve into it now, either, however, and he was forced to settle for a smile that he hoped was reassuring. "It will," he agreed.

She nodded a bit briskly. "I'll see him later today, you know."

"Oh?"

"He needs a physical to be re-admitted to A Wing." She cleared her throat, then paused, toying with the rubber tube of her stethoscope. He waited for her to say more, and when she didn't, he had the distinct impression she was stalling.

"What is it?"

Still, she hesitated, then released a quick breath. "I just know you're very close, you and Lincoln. I don't want…I can't be put in a position where my professionalism is compromised…in regard to him."

He stared at her dumbly. "What?"

"Never mind." She turned away, and he was about to press he further when he suddenly understood what she was asking.

"Wait." He reached out to stop her, his hand skimming her hip. He jerked it back abruptly, then belatedly craned his head toward the No one./em He laid it back against her, curving his fingers around her hipbone and drawing her back toward him. She let him.

"I would _never_ speak to Lincoln about you."

She remained very still. "Ok." Her eyes flicked toward the clock on the wall and then abruptly back to his face. She took another deep breath. "This is all new territory for me Michael."

"You don't have to tell _me_ that."  
She eyed the clock again. The minute hand was edging past the three. "I have to go."

"I know."

She turned, and he felt his fingers slip away from her pants. At the door, she turned, still worrying the stethoscope in her hands. "I wish…" She faltered, appearing to struggle for the words she wanted. "I mean…in another life? I'd want Lincoln to know."

Day 16

She was smiling a lot lately. Also becoming routine? Her habit of watching the clock a bit incessantly throughout the mornings…10 am, then 11, and then 12. Today, she left the prison grounds for lunch, and when she returned, Katie was waiting for her in her office. That fact in and of itself was not unusual, but as Sara approached from the end of the hall, there was something about the tenseness of her posture that immediately put her on-edge. A sudden uprising of nerves shot through her stomach as she set her bag down carefully and turned to regard Katie cautiously. "Afternoon."

Katie looked sober. "I'm sorry to hear about your father," she offered.

"What about my father?"

Katie looked flustered. "It's probably old news to you, but I only just saw," she said hurriedly. "All this about the VP nomination?" She paused, probably because Sara was still staring at her blankly. "Oh, she amended softly. "You haven't heard?"

"Katie?"

"Your father was offered and formally declined the VP nomination today. It was just on Channel 10."

"What was she talking about?/em /spanspan style="font-size: small;"She watched as Katie reached across her to the keyboard on her desk and pulled up MSN. A second later, her father's face filled her monitor. She scanned the accompanying article, but even after reading the type, her mind was churning in a slow counter-current to the news like water swirling down a drain. emHer dad was still in D.C. He would have called. He would have told her.

Shit. It was just as likely he wouldn't. Katie was still talking, and she found herself answering numbly. "I didn't even know he was up for consideration," she said quietly. /span/p  
p style="color: #222222; font-family: ariel, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"span style="font-size: small;""I'm sorry, Sara." Katie was looking at her in genuine concern, and Sara forced a weak smile.

"I'm sure I'll catch up with him about it soon."

"Of course." Katie was still looking at her cautiously, however. "You want me to take your one o'clock?"

Sara blinked. Her one o'clock. _Her one o'clock_. "No, that's fine," she blurted. "I've got it." Katie looked a bit taken aback, and Sara somehow found the presence of mind to tamper her abrupt insistence with what she hoped passed as a grateful shrug of her shoulders. "I could use the distraction."

*****

She was upset. He had no way of knowing why, and immediately, his imagination jumped wildly from one possible explanation to the next, until his stomach churned at the myriad of scenarios he had conjured. He thought he might be sick. The second they were alone, he didn't waste time mincing words. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head. He swallowed…hard. With only a handful of minutes a day at their disposal, and even fewer in the relative privacy of the exam room, he would make no apology for being stingy with their time. "Sara," he said more firmly. "What is _wrong?"_

She paused in her preparation of his shot, whether due to the insistent rise of his tone or in deliberation, he wasn't sure. All the same, when she looked up at him, he caught a startled look in her eyes. "It's not you," she said hastily, as though the idea of him connecting her mood to their situation hadn't occurred to her. Perhaps it hadn't. She had just finished drawing up the syringe, and now she reached for his hand, squeezing his fingers very briefly in the way he had come to expect as she turned his hand over to inject his vein.

He was pretty sure he felt his heart constrict along with his fingers. "Are you sure?" He was relieved, but the urgency in his tone persisted. He did nothing to alter it. Outside the room, the C.O. was shifting on his seat, and above their heads, the clock was ticking. This was urgent.

She paused again, and then spoke just as the needle pricked his skin. "My father?" she began, and he would have smiled at the questioning inflection of her words had he not seen the way her jaw tensed as she said them. It wasn't likely he needed reminding who her father was. She took a breath, drew the needle back out of his arm, and continued very matter-of-factly. "He was forced to decline the VP nomination today."

Michael blinked. "Because of Lincoln?" His arm still lay against the cold metal tray, and he would have moved it to roll back down his sleeve, but her fingers were still flat atop his, and maybe, if he stayed very still, she'd leave them there a second or two longer.

She nodded. "Probably."

Michael frowned. She was a bit of a closed book today, and while the obvious guess was to assume she resented Lincoln's role in her father's political stumble, he was inclined to think it may be something else entirely. He studied the pale curve of her throat where an heated flush was creeping up her neck as though he were attempting to read tea leaves, and when he could reveal nothing, he felt his frustration build. "I'm sorry," he offered. "That must be a big disappointment."

She looked surprised. "No," she shrugged, reaching for a cotton ball from the jar to press to his arm, but at the barely discernable tremor to her voice, he glanced up from the white fluff against his skin to seek her eyes. "I only found out as it was announced, just now."

His face must have literally fallen at this admission, because she frowned back at him, then rose to grab his chart from the wall. "I'm sorry, Sara," he said again, and this time, his own voice shook with emotion. Her distress made sense now. Upon her explanation, his mind replayed her injured appearance at the exam room door, and now knowing its cause, he felt his blood begin to boil. He was somewhat surprised at the degree of indignation he felt on her behalf. "That's inexcusable."

"It is what it is."

She was looking back at him almost willfully, her eyes shining with a false bravado he suspected she didn't even realize was there. He ached for her. He'd seen this look on her face before. At least once, he had been privy to it through the slats of the rec yard fence as he had assured her he wasn't one to judge her on the merits of her father.

Maybe she saw the anger in his own eyes, or something else entirely that he hadn't intended to reveal, because she took a step back both literally and figuratively. "I'll be fine," she said, and before she left the room, she offered him a smile that revealed a strength that took his breath away. A strength he knew a lesser woman would not have had to give.

Sara caught her father on the phone later that afternoon, and didn't waste time on preliminaries. "I'm your daughter, and I'm the last to know you were up for the VP nomination? Do you know how insulting that is?"

His answer was so condescending, she flinched. "I hardly saw the point in bringing it up."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means, Sara, that the second I signed the clemency for that scumbag of yours, I knew I was throwing away the nomination." He sighed heavily into the phone. "Of course, I hardly expect you to understand that."br /br /spanspan style="font-size: small;"em"Dad."

"In fact, all _I do_ expect from you is a little understanding, once in a while, of the public nature of my job. It would be great if every so often, you didn't work so damn hard to counter every stand I take. Is that too much to ask?"

Sara bit her lip. She nearly…very nearly…flipped her cell phone shut, but instead, she took a breath and squared her shoulders. "I'll do my best."

Her father laughed bitterly. "An ambiguous response. Well played. God forbid you actually commit to something. Should have been a fucking lawyer."

A moment later, he had hung up on _her,_ and Sara sat heavily back down at her desk. He was going to pull her away from Fox River. It wouldn't be the first time he manipulated her life purely out of spite, and now, the dread of it sat like a rock in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly the sheer weight of all these interlocking events left her weary. Michael had linked her to Lincoln who had linked her to this case that linked her to her father. She knew he would now lock this whole thing down tight, chaining her to the agenda he saw fit, holding her to her word. In exchange for Lincoln's clemency, her father had bought Sara's obedience, and even while she railed against it, she knew he would insist on getting his money's worth.


	6. Chapter 6

_Year One_

 _Month One_

 _Day 17_

He was one of the last inmates to file out into the yard, and as Michael waited, watching the lazy procession of men shuffle out of the A-Wing entrance toward him, he bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, suddenly unable to stand still. They only had thirty minutes for this first rec time together, and he wanted to spend as many of them as possible with his brother.

Lincoln's eyes snagged his the second he shuffled out into the yard, and then he was making a bee-line toward him. Less than twenty seconds later, Michael was thrown off-balance, stumbling backward a step-and then two-as Linc flung himself into his torso, both arms coming around to clasp him tightly against his chest. They remained embraced while the rest of the inmates spilled out into the yard around them, and when Lincoln finally released him, it was easy for Michael to identify with the barely concealed rush of emotion manifested in his brother's concentrated frown and the tightly clenched angle of his jaw.

"Welcome to A-Wing," he grinned, thumping him once more on the back. "Good to have you."

Lincoln grinned back. "Good to be here." He shook his head, as though he still couldn't quite believe it. Michael suspected he _couldn't_ …to him as well, Lincoln's narrow escape from execution still felt real only in theory. As though it were still a plan not yet implemented. Maybe that was simply because it hadn't been _he_ who implemented it.

Lincoln must have been reading his mind. "I still don't get how it all happened," he said, and Michael could only shake his head.

"I plan to get to the bottom of it."

Lincoln shook his head again. "And look at gift horse in the mouth?"

Michael scoffed. "A gift horse around here? When's the last time something came free, Linc? If there's a string attached to this, I want to know what it is, sooner rather than later."

They turned and began walking the yard as they talked, comparing notes on what they knew from Veronica. When they ran out of info, their conversation turned to the various events that had transpired since the aborted break-out. Michael felt Lincoln's studied stare as he eyed the yellowed bruises along his cheekbone and jaw line. "Things aren't going so well in A-Wing, I see."

"Interpersonal relations are a bit stilted, but they're improving," Michael replied. He offered another grin.

Lincoln's eyes remained stubbornly on his face for another beat, and then he looked away, toward the fence-line, still frowning. "You're in good spirits, considering you get beat up on a regular basis, bro."

Michael trained his own gaze on the chain link and swallowed at least a dozen petty retorts. "It's not all bad."

Something in his tone must have piqued Lincoln's interest. "Yeah? Did the laundry P.I. finally decide to upgrade to Egyptian cotton or something?"

Michael laughed, grateful for the distraction. "Nah, but I heard we got a new chef in the kitchens. We're switching to all French Infusion cuisine."

Lincoln stared him down for another full second, and then relented, finally breaking into a smile himself. "Well, whatever it is, it suits you, man."

Michael suddenly found himself at a loss for words; no quip was forthcoming. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Lincoln turned to walk back toward the building.

"Linc?" He watched as he stopped, then turned back. His voice returned to him in a rush. "I missed you."

 _Day 25_

 _11:55 am_

For Sara, the minute the clock hit 1 pm Monday through Friday was both exhilarating and agonizing. She waited all morning for it, anticipation building in her mind as each hour clicked by, and when she caught sight of Michael rounding the corner, having him beside her in the flesh never disappointed. But the minutes disappeared so rapidly it made her reel, and when he was marched back out, the countdown to the next appointment began anew, and with each day, the routine wore more thin. She wanted more.

She learned to stretch their time. She ordered tests, she checked bandages, she stopped prepping his shot ahead of time, but with each day, it became more and more apparent to her that it wasn't enough. It was a familiar feeling…both the elation of being with him and the impatient, near obsessive waiting for the next appointment, the high followed by the low…the little lies. It sent a warning blaring through her head, but even so, even then, she resolutely ignored it. She told herself this was different, and it was, wasn't it? This was in pursuit of a happiness she'd quite frankly given up finding, and she refused to tarnish it with thought of the laundry list of shortcomings in her past. She pushed them from her mind, along with her mistrust of herself and her fears, and she told herself something was seriously wrong with her if she couldn't allow herself even the slightest joy without an onslaught of guilt.

But then there was the way she was playing Katie, and that, she had a harder time ignoring. She had discovered-quite by accident-that that if she kept Katie a few minutes into her lunch hour on some pretense or another, then consequently, she also _returned_ from her lunch hour a few minutes late, and if Michael also arrived for his 1 pm appointment right on time (which was never a certainty, depending on which C.O. brought him), they were able to effectively buy themselves a few minutes relatively alone in the infirmary, without fear of interruption.

She knew it was sneaky. She knew it was manipulative, and _damn it_ , she _knew_ that feeling. She _hated_ that feeling, and every time she did it, she hated herself for it a little more. And yet, the rewards so greatly outweighed the cost, she couldn't bring herself to stop. And though it nagged at her every day, she couldn't begin to explain it to Michael. Of course he wouldn't understand. He had no way of knowing the underlying cause of her fear, or from what past battles the pattern she saw playing out before her derived.

Today, like so many others, she saw her chance to ensure the slightest sliver of privacy, and though she wavered, she took it. As she saw Katie wander toward the office to gather her purse and her coat, she scrambled to finish the paperwork on her desk; the lunch hour had crept up on her today. She hastily scribbled out the remainder of a patient report, and by the time Katie had entered the room, she was just slipping it into a manila envelope and sealing it. "Would you mind dropping this off over at Psych Ward on your way out?" she asked, and felt a familiar pang of guilt as she saw Katie hesitate. "I know it's across the yard…but they asked for it this morning, and it completely slipped my mind. Take ten minutes on the other end of your lunch hour?"

Katie smiled, holding out her hand for the envelope. "Sure. Take a decent lunch for yourself though, ok? You're working too much. If the afternoon appointments start a little late, it won't be the end of the world."

It would, actually, in Sara's world, but Katie didn't need to know that.

When he entered the infirmary, Sara waved him into Exam 2 herself, which meant her nurse was still at lunch. The regular orderly was no where in sight either, and as his C.O. wandered back down the hallway toward the sick bay, he looked pointedly around the empty space, then back to her. She offered him a quick smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear, and watching her, he experienced a sudden, heady rush of confidence. "You're a regular miracle worker, aren't you?" he observed slyly. He meant it only as a lighthearted compliment, but as her expression slid into something resembling anxiety, his own face fell a notch. _This was her job_ , he reminded himself fiercely. _This was her career_.

He caught her hand as she gestured toward the chair by the counter. It was safe; they were alone, at least for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was only teasing."

She allowed her hand to remain in his, but looked down slightly so that her eyes rested somewhere near the vicinity of his shoes. She looked vaguely stressed.

He frowned, unsure of the cause of her mood, but they were alone, and if he didn't seize the opportunity, it was going to pass all too quickly. _He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth._ He pressed gently backward on her hand, steering her toward the chair…and away from the door. Away from the window.

Sara acquiesced, and by the time Michael had planted her in the seat, she was smiling again, reaching up to encircle his neck as his face bent down to hers. Their mouths connected while she was still grinning, and Michael shifted his focus, pressing his lips instead to the corner of her mouth, laughing softly against her cheek. "Stop it," he chastised her lightly. "I'm on the clock here."

She only smiled anew, but he stopped talking, kissing her as long as he dared, which wasn't long at all. It was probably no more than fifteen seconds…fifteen seconds of his hands on her neck and in her hair, up the graceful curve of her spine and back down. Of the absolutely unequaled sensation of _her_ hands on _him_ , grasping his shoulder and then, _oh God_ , his waist, grazing the inked plane of his stomach. Fifteen seconds that made his entire body yearn for more-more time, more privacy, more _…Sara._

He stopped, even though pulling away from her was akin to the ripping off of a band-aid, and only then did she fully sober, and he knew it felt the same for her. She didn't protest-they both knew the drill-but as she dropped her hands from his sides to clasp them together in her lap, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, Michael had to step back and away or risk yielding to the temptation to lose himself in her all over again. He gave her knee a gentle squeeze as he rose and settled himself on the exam table across the room.

This wasn't their first stolen kiss since the night Michael found himself an overnight guest in the infirmary, but they were a long way from becoming used to the bittersweet agony always left in the wake of the moment. Because it _was_ hard not to feel bitter. It was hard not to bristle at the abject unfairness of their situation. And every single time they touched, it got harder to pull away. Michael compared it to the horrible homesickness he'd had as a child, the empty hollowness that needing a place, a home, a family had always conjured within him, but which had always hovered just out of reach, unattainable. _You can't miss what you never had,_ Lincoln would say to him then, but now, he _did_ have it. Today, he'd had it for fifteen seconds, and he wanted it back so badly, his chest literally ached.

Across the room, Sara was resolutely preparing his tray. Outside the exam room window, he could see the C.O. sauntering back through the infirmary doors to plop into a chair at the end of the hall. The sight of him only increased the pain lacing his head and his heart, and he shifted his gaze back to watch Sara. He took a deep breath to fully regain his composure, and, by the time she arrived back at his side, he felt almost normal again. _Almost._ He changed the subject, because that was all they could do.

"I like your hair down like that," he told her as she settled on the stool.

She smiled again, but this time, he couldn't help but notice it was a bit rueful. All the same, she raised one eyebrow playfully. "I know."

"Ah. Well, in that case," he answered, plucking casually at his powder blue prison-issued shirt, "I feel it's only fair to tell you I picked out this shirt just for you this morning."

His effort at humor was rewarded by her laugh, and the sound of it, low and throaty, eased some of the remaining resentment toward their situation that still hovered somewhere near the back of his mind. He watched as she filled his syringe with saline, then offered his arm.

"Things are going better in the yard?" she asked as the needle slid beneath his skin.

He nodded, but couldn't quite bite back the slight wave of defensiveness her concern fostered. "I have my big brother to take care of me now, remember." _He hated for her to see him weak._

She let the comment pass, but all the same, his precarious position in Fox River suddenly weighed heavily in the air around them. He found himself desperate to think about anything besides his incarceration. "Tell me something that has nothing to do with this place," he requested.

She tossed the used sharp in the container on the wall and turned back to him in question. "Like what?"

He watched her steadily. "What's the last movie you saw?"

She frowned, then turned toward the supply cabinet, but not before flashing him a look of curious inquiry herself. "I don't know, Michael."

"Really?"

She glanced back at him, eying him then almost suspiciously, and he had the distinct impression this line of questioning was making her uncomfortable. "It wasn't memorable," she expanded. "Probably something stupid. Why?"

"It was just a question," he replied. "Forget it." Sara was silent for a beat, and then gestured toward his shirt.

"Your burn," she prompted.

He lifted his shirt up and off, but just as he felt Sara's hands on his skin as she stepped around behind him, he inexplicably decided to press the issue. "You get here at eight every day, and I see you at one," he blurted, "and then you have what? Four more hours of patients? And then you go home. Then what?"

Sara paused. Michael felt her hands drop from his back, and then she was stuffing them in the pockets of her coat, turning to face him. "And then I'm home. I don't understand what you're asking."

Suddenly, he felt irritated. "It's not a trick question, Sara. I just…when I think of you, I'd rather picture you in a context outside of these walls." She looked at him more sharply, her eyes widening. " _Oh! No_ , he added hastily. "That's not…that's not what I meant." He turned, quite nearly mortified, to study the exact walls he wanted to obliterate from his mind. "Never mind."

She looked hurt, and he immediately relented. "I'm sorry. _Please._ Never mind."

Slowly, she reached back up to his burn, her fingers gently dabbing at the site. "You want to know about what's going on outside the prison?" she ventured.

Michael sighed. "No. That's not it." _Why did he get the impression she was being purposefully oblivious to his line of inquiry?_ He reached out for her hand in an attempt to get them both back on track, and she whipped her head instinctually toward the window before relenting at the sight of the guard's back to the glass. She offered her palm, and he turned it over in his grasp, tracing the fine lines from her fingertips to her wrist. "If I wanted to know the price of gas, I'd pick up a Newsweek," he said softly, and watched as his touch hit upon a sensitive spot upon her skin; her hand curled reflectively around his in response. "What I want to know about is _you_."

"Then for your sake," she said quietly, "I wish I were more interesting."

Michael sighed. _Was that all it was? Insecurity? Lack of confidence?_ She did that with fair regularity, he found...she deflected, and when that didn't work, she disparaged of herself. It was a tendency that made him want to take her by the shoulders and shake her.  
 _  
"Sara."_

She re-doubled her efforts on his burn with a newfound energy, then released a low sigh that sounded very much like a concession. "If I leave work on time, and traffic is light," she said slowly, "I get home around six. I stare into the fridge for about five minutes, then usually call for take-out."

"You don't cook?"

"No," she smiled, then paused. "That whole lesson kind of passed me by."

Michael's mind immediately flashed upon the neatly printed pages of research he'd done on the Tancredi family. _Of course._ "Somehow I never learned from Lincoln either," he smiled.

She paused at the mention of his brother. "Lincoln told me your mother contracted cancer young," she said. "I'm sorry, Michael." She resumed cleaning out his burn. "Mine died when I was twelve."

Michael opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly. The words _I know_ had been on the tip of his tongue before it suddenly occurred to him that this was information she didn't know he possessed. He felt instantly guilty, as though he'd been caught snooping.

Sara didn't miss his sudden discomfort. "What?"

He looked up at her. From his vantage sitting on the edge of the table, she stood several feet above him; with her hair down and her face cast in the sunlight shining through the outside window, she looked very young…young enough for Michael to imagine the twelve-year-old she had been. He had no desire to cause her any extra grief, but he was done lying to her, no matter the reason.

"I had read that, about your mother," he told her evenly.

For a moment, she looked taken aback. "Oh." She nodded. "Right."

She didn't sound angry, and Michael released a soft sigh of relief. He smiled up at her. "So no homemade dinner when I finally get out of here?"

She laughed outright. "I was going to ask you the same thing."

He swallowed hard. Her admission had seemed to lodge Michael's response somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. He leveled his eyes on her and tried again. "Really?"

They were interrupted before she had the chance to answer. They both turned at the sound of the C.O.'s footsteps; Michael craned his head around just in time to see him pause in the doorway. "Time's up," he said. "Let's go."

Sara's hands froze on his flesh just above his wound, and then she held up one hand toward the guard, requesting one last minute. He rolled his eyes, but stepped back out into the hall, and Sara crossed the room in three strides, tearing open a fresh bandage and returning to apply it to Michael's skin. _"Really,"_ she whispered into the bell of his ear, just as she pressed the last corner of the bandage into place. As she turned away, Michael felt the tips of her fingers graze the back of his neck before she addressed the C.O. "He's all yours."

 _*****_

 _Month 2_

 _Day 6_

Once they got used to regularly discussing the world outside of Fox River, they found it fun. _"Favorite restaurant,"_ Sara would prompt, or, _"Best coffee,"_ and when Michael would respond with a place she knew well, they'd grin at each other conspiratorially, unaccountably, ridiculously happy with their discovery. They found college acquaintances in common, and realized that when Michael had owned his loft, they could have considered themselves to be neighbors, so few blocks had divided them.

"Tell me about your apartment," Michael requested one August afternoon. Outside the window, the sun beat down into the room in sharp strips through the shade Sara had requested to cover the bars-it was a sweltering summer, even for Chicago.

"My apartment?" she smiled.

"Is it really as messy as you like to boast?"

"I can find my car keys after only three to five minutes, if that's any indication." She watched Michael wince. "I take it your place was always annoyingly spotless."

"I fail to see how that's annoying," he countered, and she laughed.

"That's what I thought."

She was still smiling when she turned to gather the various elements of his 'insulin' shot. There were days when this thing between them, this relationship-she couldn't call it anything but-was pure agony, days in which the memories of past injustices resurfaced, or days when the sheer lack of adequate time and the inability to properly touch and talk sent her straight into her office after Michael was led back away to A-Wing, to cry tears of frustration. But then there were days like this, when everything would click, and he was in a good mood, and she was in a good mood, and for just a brief moment, everything felt easy, and simple, and normal.

"So the first time I step foot into your apartment, what's the first thing I'll see?" he asked.

She leaned into him, her cheek brushing his as she spoke into his ear. "Me, throwing myself at you."

She saw his knuckles whiten where he gripped the side of the table. Outside the room, several C.O.s stood idly by, discussing late summer vacation plans, and he couldn't respond, not the way either of them wanted anyway, and they both knew it. Still, his mouth opened slightly, then resolutely shut, and she knew he wanted to kiss her so badly, he was seeing stars. At least, she hoped he was.

She watched him take a breath, then release it slowly before he narrowed his eyes back on her playfully. _"That_ was hitting below the belt."

She blinked at him, feigning innocence. "I guess I'll have to take the foul then."

"So I'm in your apartment, and you're…in my arms," he recapped, his voice so low it reminded Sara of velvet. "What happens next?"

She found herself taking a healthy step back from the table. It wasn't a precaution, it was a necessity. They were both playing dirty by this time. "Really, Scofield?" she tried to inquire casually, but she suspected she wasn't fooling him. "You've got nothing?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," he smirked. "I was under the impression you had thought this out. Do I get a tour, then?"

"Maybe eventually."

He swallowed again. Hard. "Ah. So you _have_ thought this out."

 _Month 2_

 _Day 22_

Not every day could be filled with enough flirtation and innuendo to make Michael's head spin, of course.

"I need to know more about your wife," Sara said bluntly one day in late August, and to Michael, the request seemed to spring from completely out of the blue, but this was the nature of the beast. This was how it _had_ to be between them…rushed, abrupt, in haste. He glanced quickly up at the clock. Two minutes remaining in their appointment, tops.

"Sara," he protested in dismay. "We don't have time." But because that sounded like a lame excuse, he reached for her hand. Katie had been coming and going between the exam rooms all afternoon, and he wasn't surprised when she withdrew it. "We've discussed this," he added quickly, returning his own hand to his lap, and in his defense, they _had,_ but one look at Sara's face told him she needed more in the way of explanation. He didn't want to deny her. "It was never a true marriage," he said, and because Sara was still watching him intently, he tried a different tact. "Veronica promises she's working on it." In fact, he asked her for the status of his annulment every time they met.

"If it wasn't real, I don't understand why you did it," Sara countered, and Michael felt an almost low-grade panic set in as he heard the minute hand move another click along the clock-face.

"I want to explain it all," he told her frantically. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the C.O. approach. "It was a part of the plan, and when we have time, I'll explain it."

Sara stood stubbornly in place. She looked conflicted, torn between a righteous anger and a desire to amend while they still had time. She frowned. "I try not to press you Michael, but I can't be in the dark all-"

"I know," he interrupted intently. _"I know._ But I've told you, there are things it's better that you don't-"

"Scofield," the C.O. interrupted from the hall.

"I don't care if I shouldn't know," Sara continued. "I need to understand. I can't be…doing this…if you're _married_ , Michael."

"I know that. I'm-"

 _"_ _Scofield!"_

He stood, and on the third order of the guard, he shuffled as slowly as he could from the table to the door. Sara had crossed the room, standing by the cabinet. "You've got to go," she said softly.

Still, he hesitated. "Are you ok?" he whispered even more softly, even though he could see she wasn't.

She nodded. "Sure."

"Sara."

"Scofield!"

 _"_ _Sara."_

She turned completely away, and he knew it was because she was crying. Damn it. _Damn it, damn it, damn it._ And then he was in the hall, and the cuffs were sliding back around his wrists and locking with a definitive click, and it would be 24-hours before he had any chance of fixing this.

 _Something had to give._ He couldn't do this…he couldn't continue walking away from her whenever it suited a guard, with no recourse…no outlet through which to communicate with her further. The thought of abandoning her, again and again as he was forced to do, completely alone with the pain he caused, left him so cold, he'd pace his cell for hours afterward, constructing words of comfort and explanations to her fears in his head. Explanations that would have to be shelved for a full day, if she ever heard them at all. And then there were his own fears. His own pain. It was nothing short of torture.

They solved it eventually, this thing about Nika, just as they seemed to weather each storm that arose, but each time, the stress of each aborted discussion and forced separation wore on them a bit more, and Michael began to worry in earnest that they couldn't maintain this pattern of misery and elation, of interrupted discourse and stolen moments. No one could. The were denied the simple expression of touch on a regular basis, and the chance to properly plan or talk even more often. Everything they did was essentially played out in a public forum, and he found himself floundering, as helpless to right himself as a bug squirming under a magnifying glass.

Sara lived each day riding a rollercoaster of emotion. When she awoke in the morning, she was unsure whether it would be to giddy butterflies in her stomach or a dull ache of loneliness, or whether it would be to a confusing combination of both, leaving her completely consumed in such a sickeningly sweet happiness, such an electric buzz of chemistry, it frightened her.

In fact, her mind was always buzzing, working out scenarios, assessing looks and phrases, and God help her, making plans she feared would eventually succeed in breaking her heart if they couldn't come to pass. She was distracted and more than a bit withdrawn in her personal life, such as it was these days, and she truly worried that eventually, the noise in her head would drown out everyone else altogether, and she'd forget an appointment or a lunch date with Katie, or simply run out of excuses for her preoccupied behavior.

Her father, for his part, had been abnormally quiet in the past month or so; a fact that Sara tried to take as a blessing not to be questioned further. Still, she waited every day for the other shoe to drop, for her phone to ring, and for her dad to lay out his own plans. His own agenda. Every day, she wondered how much longer she would be at Fox River. She wondered how much longer she and Michael could walk this tightrope of potential disaster without missing a step, and even though she had no intention of altering a thing, she knew it was no way to live.

 _Month 3_

 _Day 7_

He had so much more to say to her than could be crammed into 15 harried minutes a day, and every evening that he watched Sucre sit down on his bunk with pen and paper and sweat over a new letter to Maricruz, the solution-the obvious, risky, terrifying solution-became more and more tempting, until finally, he leaned down from the upper bunk, waving one long arm to get his attention. "Lend me a piece of paper, would you?"

Sucre laughed good-naturedly. "Since when do you have anyone to write?"

"Just hand it over. You're not going to use all that."

A minute later, he was lying back, staring at the blank page. "Seriously," Sucre pressed from the bunk below. "You drawing more maps or something?"

Michael bit back a quick rise of irritation. "Maybe I got a pen-pal."

Sucre snorted. "Careful, Papi. If she's willing to write us here, she probably resembles Avocado in more ways than one."

"I'll take my chances."

"On the plus side, if you take her out to dinner, there's a good chance she qualifies for the senior discount."

"Sucre?"

"Yeah Papi?"

"Shut up."

Michael walked toward visitation the next day with nerves churning his stomach. He'd never been so anxious to see Veronica. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, his fingers curving around the thick envelope. Despite Sucre's constant offers of help, he had managed to write ten full pages. Ten pages of explanations and confessions and declarations, intermixed with casual musings and inconsequential chatter. In other words, three months' worth of conversation he'd been denied. He wondered if it was a mistake. He wondered what on earth she'd think of his taking such a chance.

He greeted Veronica with a smile that felt tight and a bit terrified, but she didn't seem to notice. She had news about his case…she was getting somewhere with the appeals board, apparently, and maybe, just maybe, he'd be out of here in much less than five years. The thought of release made his heart constrict painfully with cautious longing, but all the same, he was determined to keep his expectations low. He was determined to keep his head down, and ride this out as long as he must, making as few waves as possible. He couldn't hope for more. He just… _couldn't_ , and as grateful for her efforts as he was, he was glad to finally change the subject.

He took a deep breath, and just came out with it. "If I asked you a favor, could you keep it strictly between you and me?"

Veronica looked surprised, but recovered quickly. "Of course." She looked at him pointedly. "I'm your lawyer, remember?"

He nodded. "I also remember you telling Lincoln about the time I nearly peed my pants walking through that graveyard over on 42nd."

Veronica slid him sly grin. "Well I wasn't your lawyer _then_."

"I mean it Vee. Not even Linc can know."

She was still smiling at him. "What is it? You want me to arrange a conjugal visit for you or something?"

He felt himself blush. _Shit._

She straightened. "Oh my God, you _do."_

He shook his head fiercely, all the while feeling like a fraud. "That's not it. I…listen…I just need you to deliver something for me in person. Something that can't go through the prison mail system."

Veronica nodded cautiously. "Ok. Of course."

"No questions."

She nodded again, a bit impatiently, and by now, Michael could tell her curiosity was clearly piqued. He couldn't blame her. "Alright," she agreed. "No questions."

He reached into his pocket, then slid the envelope across the visitation table toward her. He watched as she scanned the carefully printed name and address on the front, then snapped her eyes back to Michael's face. He knew at least a dozen inquiries had just sprung to the forefront of her mind, but after what felt to Michael like a full minute of agonized deliberation, she kept her word. She tucked the envelope into her briefcase and stood. "If I'm on my way to midtown this evening, I'd better try to beat the traffic," she said breezily, and Michael swallowed hard before offering her a tight smile.

"Thank you."


	7. Chapter 7

_Month Three_

 _Day Eight_

 _7:35 pm_

Sara had just returned from her N.A. meeting on South La Salle when she heard a knock at her front door. It was only seven pm, but all the same, she wasn't expecting anyone, and she paused abruptly midway from the kitchen to her bedroom before turning quickly back toward the door, dropping her unopened mail on the entryway table. Changing her shoes would have to wait.

A hasty look through the peephole revealed a partial view of long black hair and the crisp line of a tailored blue blazer. _It was a woman._ Sara opened the door, and instantly recognized Lincoln's lawyer. _Michael's lawyer too_ , she amended quickly and just like that, her stomach clenched in an unnamed but distinctly anticipatory fear.

"Ms. Donovan," she said. She didn't bother hiding her surprise.

"Veronica," she corrected quickly with a engaging tilt of her chin and a hint of a smile. She didn't look like she had come bearing bad news, and Sara tried to relax. Still, Veronica looked slightly uncomfortable standing awkwardly in the lit hallway, and Sara's stomach continued to churn with a flutter of vague, indefinable anxiety.

She forced her nerves to remain at bay. "Veronica," she repeated. "Of course. Come in." Veronica stepped inside, but left her coat on. "Uh, can I get you something?" Sara cast around a bit desperately in her mind, attempting to mentally catalogue the contents of her fridge. "Soda? Tea?"

Veronica waved off the offer. "I'm only here as the delivery girl," she said smoothly. She didn't intimidate, exactly; with her lilting manner of speech and her short posture Sara imagined it must be hard for her to command a courtroom, but never-the-less, she got the impression Veronica held some sort of upper hand in this conversation that she was not yet privy to.

"Here," she said without further preamble, and Sara looked down abruptly to see she was being offered an envelope. It was standard business size, but thick…Sara was surprised by its weight as Veronica passed it into her waiting hand. One glance at the single word- _Sara_ -comprised of neat block letters on the front revealed the letter's sender, but even as her heart began to hammer of its own accord, she heard herself asking what she already knew. "What's this?"

Maybe what she was really asking was, _what is this going to say? Why is it coming from you?_ She must have been telegraphing her thoughts, because Veronica's mouth pursed in a slight frown.

"I don't know." She shrugged, but the gesture was anything but casual. She looked down at the envelope, now in Sara's hands, then back up to Sara. She appeared to be deliberating leaving her explanation at that, but after a beat, the urge to speak clearly won out. "I _have_ known _Michael_ almost all my life, though," she added in a rush, then paused. She held Sara's gaze, and now, Sara had little trouble picturing Veronica Donovan maintaining a domineering presence in front of the numerous judges that held Lincoln's fate in their hands. "To say he's a deliberate, careful man would be putting it mildly."

Sara only nodded, all at once feeling the need to defend herself in her own living room. She had to fight the urge to cross her arms over her chest in defiance, studying Veronica's face cautiously.

But Veronica only offered a self-conscious smile, then broke eye contact, turning toward the door in an abrupt movement that suggested to Sara a need to extract herself. Just as her hand reached for the knob, however, she frowned anew and turned. "Are _you_? Careful, I mean?"

Sara felt her shoulders draw up and back as she sucked in a sharp breath. There was challenge in Veronica's gaze, but it was countered by enough genuine concern and abject caution that Sara found herself answering as carefully and honestly as she could. "I try to do the right thing."

Veronica nodded, as though unsurprised. "I'll get out of your hair, then," she said, her eyes flicking down to the sealed envelope in Sara's hands, and then back up. She offered a quick flutter of her hand, then opened the door.

Suddenly, Sara felt remiss. "Oh, Veronica? Congratulations…on Lincoln's case, I mean."

Veronica paused in the doorway. She smiled more widely. Sara could see a quick warmth- like a flint sparking off jade-igniting in her eyes, but she didn't answer straight away, and they quickly returned to still green. She studied Sara for a beat. "It was all pretty amazing," she said slowly, and then her mouth was curving back into a slight smile, and with a final tentative wave, she slipped out the door and turned down the hallway toward the stairs.

When the door had closed behind her, Sara stood for a long moment in the entryway, her tired feet forgotten, her hunger forgotten. _What had she been about to do? Oh yes. A change of clothes. Dinner._ Thirty seconds ago, she would have said with certainty that the moment Veronica left, she'd rip open the envelope and begin to read, but now, she found herself experiencing a crisis of confidence. _What did it contain? What was he sending her?_

She eyed the letter in her hands, then turned it over cautiously, as though there was a reasonable chance of it biting her. On the back, across the triangle defining the envelope's flap, he had written her address in his same precise lettering-1616 Van Leer Dr. #236-and she ran one finger over the ink, watching, mesmerized, as the blue curve of the 6 blurred, the smudge staining her fingertip.

 _She couldn't do it._ Not yet, anyway. She set the envelope, still unopened, on the table, forcing herself instead to pick back up where she had left off before hearing Veronica's knock. She pulled off her shoes as she made her way back down the hallway to her bedroom, stripping off her work clothes in favor of the first thing she could reach in her bottom drawer: flannel pajama bottoms and an old sweatshirt, the blocked purple letters that spelled out _Northwestern_ beginning to fade from vibrant purple to a mellow violet after too many washings. She strode back into the kitchen, intending to make something to eat, but found herself reaching only to start the water for tea. She wasn't at all hungry. She knew the letter was there- _right there_ -as she grabbed a mug and selected a teabag, but she still managed to steadfastly ignore it. It wasn't until the kettle on the stove began to wail, a low whistle that rose in intensity both in the small room and within the confines of her head with each gathering second that she finally gave in, crossing the kitchen to simultaneously remove the kettle from the heat and snatch up the envelope all of one accord. She poured her water for her tea and a moment later, she was turning from the kitchen with her mug and the unopened letter. She made it only as far as the welcoming folds of her living room couch, and as she set her tea on the side table, she was anything but relaxed. Before she could talk herself out of it, she tore open one end of the envelope and tipped it on its side. It took a hardy shake, but eventually, a thick, carefully tri-folded sheaf of paper slid into her waiting palm. Terrified, she began to read.

 _Dear Sara,_

 _First, just breathe._ She stopped. One line in, and her eyes had already faltered in their scan of the page, a startled laugh catching in her throat. She _did_ feel the need to catch her breath. _Veronica knows nothing of you and me,_ she read as she resumed, but then stopped again, this time actually taking him up on his advice, forcing herself to inhale deeply before releasing the breath slowly from her lungs. _While I imagine she's drawn a few conclusions on her own, she won't pry, and she'll be slow to make judgments. I had to do this. I had to act. I couldn't allow one more day to go by with nothing but a ticking clock reflecting your frustrated face when you deserve outright answers. So from tonight on, no more games, Sara. No more elaborate explanations or rushed assurances. Just facts. All of them, no matter how long it takes._

 _Which leaves me sitting here, in a cell, trying to drown out the echo of voices reverberating across the concrete and the glare of the bright bulbs of light, bare in their sockets in the walls, and with you in mind, it's surprisingly easy. Does that unnerve you?_ Sara sucked in another breath. _It unnerves_ me, _if only because I fear that in your eyes, I will unintentionally reduce us to a cliché, painting myself as the incarcerated man becoming increasingly desperate for you, leaving you feeling objectified. You're no doubt shaking your head-_ Sara froze in that precise gesture, then resolutely read on- _but I'm not wrong, am I? The very real possibility of cheapening what I feel for you horrifies me, but all the same, this single degree of separation afforded by pen and paper gives me both opportunity and courage; opportunity to finally capture more than a few scattered minutes of your time, however remotely, and the courage to explain to you what you've deserved to know for months. So. Here goes._

He started from the beginning, and Sara sat entranced as she read of his life in Chicago, his work at his firm, and his disgust over who his own brother had become in his eyes. She read of chances lost, of phone calls missed, and then of Lincoln's arrest and Michael's subsequent investigation into his case. She read of his and Veronica's fight for appeals and his unrelenting demand of the truth. When he detailed the moment the Fox River blueprints first slid across his desk, Sara felt herself tensing as she read, her grip tightening on the stack of paper in her hand. _No,_ she thought. _He couldn't have._ But then she was reading about sketches and a tattoo artist named Syd, and she knew without a doubt that he _had._ Suddenly, the network of lines and intersections curving across his torso-and his seemingly innate sense of direction through Fox River-made devastating sense.

It was nothing short of astounding, the lengths he had gone to for a brother who, not two paragraphs back, Michael had admitted feeling shame toward. The sheer scope of what he had given up-career, freedom, friends, future-revolved around and around in Sara's head as she read, and still, she doubted she would ever wrap her mind around the full measure of his sacrifice. This was a man who acted with exacting, unrelenting force for his family, for a person he loved unconditionally. Such dedication left her feeling dazed.

He detailed to her the research he had done, painting a picture of late night after late night, of articles copied and cut out, scattered across a tabletop; of interweaving plots connecting con to con, case to case. Of friends cut off and what little family he had-LJ, and essentially Veronica-held at bay. She braced anew as he referenced the various articles he had gathered on _her,_ but this paragraph, she noted, was written with an almost stoic determination. He listed the facts he had gleaned about her family and her work like a declaration of guilt uttered within the chamber of a confessional, both unemotional and to the point. Instead of leaving her bereft however, his honesty seemed to clear what little uncertainty was left in the air between them, strangely reassuring her.

In total, she read ten pages of plans and routes and _back-up_ plans and routes. She read of miscalculations and dead-ends, of devastating set-backs and unreliable allies. She paused often to close her eyes and bring his tattoo-blue ink on olive skin-to the forefront of her mind, mentally retracing the steps he had taken unbeknownst to her. Of risks he had chanced and pains he had suffered while she had remained oblivious. In her mind's eye, she saw his burn, and then the tiny shred of fabric captured ever so precisely between the prongs of her tweezers was sharpening with unerring focus in her brain; she relived her march to Pope and her blazing questions, and she suddenly wanted to weep. She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged her body to herself as she read, feeling inexplicably isolated. She had been a step behind all along, and even now, she wasn't sure if this knowledge of Michael's actions left her feeling closer to him or instead, even more impossibly alone.

As though reading her mind, the direction of his words veered from his plans to her role within them, and she relaxed, if only slightly, on the couch. _I stepped into the infirmary that first day with a clear picture of you in my mind,_ he wrote, and Sara drew her bottom lip between her teeth in concentration. In memory. His words- _I'm Michael, by the way-_ sounding in her head, she read on, smiling slightly, because now they were in sync. This was a part of the story she knew. This was a divergence of the plan she had had a hand in. _Every time I deceived you, every time I lied, I felt an odd sort of duality. Even as I was distinctly aware of being pulled off course of my mission, even as I clamored desperately to keep my eye on my goal, I was all the while drawn closer and closer to some alternate ending. Some conclusion I couldn't define, let alone imagine how to achieve._ Sara stopped momentarily, blinking back a quick swell of something painfully hot at the back of her eyes. It wasn't quite sorrow, and wasn't quite empathy, but was born of some sort of kinship all the same. She understood being torn in two directions, boxed into two frames of mind. She understood the twin tug of duty and desire. Of mind and heart. _I still don't know how to achieve this alternate course,_ he continued, _but I know now what it is. It's a way back out of this nightmare I placed myself within. It's a true exit from this maze of crime and incarceration and just…fallen humanity. It's a chance to reclaim my life, and to be honest, from the moment I allowed the first drop of ink to penetrate my skin, that was something I never thought I'd find. I certainly knew the answer wasn't encoded into my tattoo._

 _You asked me once what I wanted from you. My answer hasn't changed. I want you to wait, if you are willing. I want time. I want the chance to be the man I think I could be for you, with you…which is neither the one I was before nor the one you met within the confines of prison._ Sara shut her eyes tightly again, but this time, the tears slid past her lashes to wet her cheeks. She swiped at them brusquely, then reopened her eyes, stealing herself to read Michael's final sentence to her. _The lights have now gone out, and I can only hope my words are staying within the margins of the page as I write, but then again, I suppose we've never been ones for boundaries, so I can't close without asking you this: what do you want from me, Sara?_

He closed the letter with only his name, and for a long time after finishing, Sara sat on the couch, staring alternately from the pale green walls of her living room to the blank half a page after his signature. She glanced absently toward her fireplace, pillar candles standing dormant on the other side of the screen, unused, unlit, and then back at the letter. In her mind, she relived the feel of his face beneath her palms that day, the slight movement of his jaw as he had opened his mouth and then resolutely shut it, the feather-light touch of his own hands in her hair as she said the first thing-the only thing-to come to her mind. _What do you want from me, Michael?_ It had seemed the only thing that made sense to ask, and now, with the question reversed, she found herself again aching to reveal to him the first answer to come to mind.

She wanted _him._ God help her, she wanted him to walk through her front door and lift her up and off this couch and _away._ But she wasn't that girl, was she? She _wasn't,_ she told herself firmly, because she had worked damned hard for this life she had made for herself. She was deliberate and sure and, if she could believe what she told her father every chance she got, she was certain that the choices she had recently made were right for her. She had never been the type to allow a single man-any man-to dictate the course of her life.

And yet. And yet she was, at this moment, laying everything on the line. Offering up all she had struggled to achieve as a bargaining chip in exchange for some vague payoff down the road, reading a covert letter from a patient and a convict while quite literally aching for him. What _did_ she want? She wanted a little instant gratification, for once. She wanted him here, free, in her life and her apartment and God yes, in her bed. She wanted just one damn thing in her life to go smoothly. To come effortlessly. She wanted to have met an incredible man, and to have been able to invite him over for dinner and introduce him to her father, and she wanted him to smile and say, _Nice to meet you. Loyola, eh? I hear you're an engineer._ She wanted to go to work and smile too much and tell Katie she's seeing this amazing man. She wanted to blush as she deflected nosy questions, then answer them shamelessly. What she didn't want was to sneak around as though she was doing yet another thing wrong. Yet another thing backwards. She didn't want to have to think so much, give so much, and feel like she may split apart from guilt and fear and terror while she did so. She didn't want to hover this close to the brink, because she knew what happened when she was forced to balance there for too long.

She reached for her own pen and paper and told him all that and more. However, when she reached the end of her page, his question, her question- _what do you want from me_ -was still reverberating in her mind. She knew why. He deserved honesty, having poured out to her every secret he had, but when she read back what she had written, she felt like a fraud. She couldn't offer total disclosure. But in her defense, how could she? How could she reveal to him the role she had played in Lincoln's exoneration without also revealing its cost? Without cutting the one lifeline that remained to him in Fox River-their relationship and her daily presence in his life?

And then, of course, there was more. In all his research, he had not unearthed her addiction-she could thank her father's excellent PR rep for that-and now, after five paragraphs of unrelenting honesty, she still could not divulge it. She had tried. She had set her pen back to the paper several times, but every time, she thought of his sharp, assessing gaze and the set of his jaw as he formed his opinions on everything from the death penalty to her own father with swift finality. While she knew logically that a man who had crossed as many lines as Michael had had surely incorporated some shades of gray into the makings of his moral compass, disclosing this part of herself was something-the last thing-she found she could not risk. In the solitude of her living room, she shook her head as though arguing against some unseen deliberator. _She wasn't ready._ Instead, in the end, she answered his question as simply as she could. She asked for him to wait for _her,_ as well, and she hoped he didn't ask what he was supposed to be waiting _for._

 _Month Three, Day Nine_

The infirmary was overcrowded. Michael tried to catch Sara's eye as he was led to Exam 4, but while he knew she saw him enter, her attention was divided between an inmate with a severed finger and another with an acute case of the flu, and she flashed him only the most harried of glances before disappearing further down the hall. Even when she did finally open the door to 4, she was clearly rushed, already pulling on a fresh pair of gloves with Katie directly on her heel. _Damn it._

"I need to be double-teamed today?" he asked lightly, and whereas he saw Sara's hands falter over the preparation of his tray, Katie chuckled.

"Just getting some antibiotics from the fridge," she retorted, but a minute later _-a full minute into their only time alone of the day-_ she was still rummaging around, this time in the cupboard above the counter. It was all Michael could do not to hop down and stack the entire contents of the fridge into her arms and steer her back out the door.

Sara moved to his side, and, after flicking a lightening quick glance back toward her nurse, she took a deep, steadying breath, offering him a smile that warmed him faster than the wave of heat he had experienced stepping out into the bare yard less than an hour ago. He grinned back, relaxing for the first time since entering the infirmary, and then watched her slide the needle deftly under his skin. "Read anything good lately?" he asked coyly.

Her eyes snapped from his arm to his face. They were warm. "Now that you mention it, yes," she answered cautiously, glancing back down to study the path of his vein from his wrist to the inside of his elbow. "Memoirs, actually."

His breath caught in his throat. "Interesting?"

"Fascinating."

She turned to grab a strip of gauze, and he watched her fingers curl around his forearm, pressing it in place as Katie finally crossed the room and opened the door. "I'll be in 2," she called over her shoulder to Sara, and Michael watched her nod.

"Alright." She leveled an apologetic glance to Michael. "I'll be just behind you." She rose abruptly, and for an instant, Michael thought she was leaving directly as well.

"Sara-"

"Here."

She was simultaneously drawing the privacy curtain and holding out a single piece of paper, folded discreetly in half. He reached out for it without so much as a glance toward the doorway or the window overlooking the crowded hall, and before she could finish positioning the curtain properly to both check his burn and afford him some privacy, he was reading.

She interrupted him once to lift his shirt, but otherwise occupied herself perhaps a bit more meticulously than strictly necessary with the task of cleaning his wound. He tried to catch her eye at several junctures, but twice they were interrupted by a frazzled orderly popping his head around the door, once to ask a question and then deliver a message, and Sara kept her gaze trained on his back as she answered each inquiry curtly but efficiently. Michael could feel the tension in her fingers where she gripped his shoulder to steady them both, and when he had finished reading, he didn't turn. Instead, he reached one hand up behind him to his shoulder, covering hers. He felt her still, finally, and he curled his grip around her fingers, squeezing. "Thank you."

He felt her chest rise and fall against his back, and then the gentle brush of her hair as she leaned down over him. Her mouth pressed to his knuckles, wondrously slowly, sending a shot of something hot and liquid to shoot down his spine and course through his veins. "Thank _you,"_ she whispered tightly, and her breath was equally warm, caressing his skin with such delicate accuracy it was all he could do not to reach out to curve his hand around her jaw, turning her while guiding her mouth to his. _But it was too crowded. There was no way, not today._

She gripped his shoulder more tightly for just a beat-he wondered if the same thoughts were running rampant through her mind-and then she moved away, coming to stand before him. She looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite place before holding out her hand, palm outward. He blinked.

"I need it back," she said reluctantly, and there was such apology in her tone, it took him a moment to infer her meaning. Once he did, he felt his face fall.

"Your-my-letter?"

"Michael." She was frowning, a single line of frustrated remorse creasing her brow. Her voice dropped back down to a low sigh. "I can't allow it out onto the floor."

Of course she couldn't. He couldn't. He shook his head swiftly-he understood now-but all the same, handing it back to her felt akin to pulling the scab from a wound. She took it just as unwillingly, refolding it and slipping it into the pocket of her pants. When she looked back up, her smile was all bravado, her cheerful tone forced. "Til tomorrow?"

He swallowed. He knew he should nod, that he should break eye contact to afford her an easier departure, but she was looking at him with overly bright eyes, a single crease in her brow revealing a vulnerability that was very rarely present, and most importantly, she was still standing behind the curtain of the screen. He shook his head just slightly in silent protest to her goodbye, reaching instead for her hand, tugging her gently to him. She took a step, and his heart leapt at the sight of her stoic smile faltering as he beckoned her down to him. She sank back onto the stool as he cradled one hand around the curve of her jaw, his fingertips grazing the nape of her neck. When he dipped his head toward her swiftly, fitting his mouth to hers, he felt her soft sigh against his lips rather than heard it, and then, just as quickly, he was drawing back, one finger running the length of her lower lip before straightening. He forced his own determined smile.

"Til tomorrow."

 _Month Three, Day 24_

On a Wednesday toward the end of the month, Sara was sorting backed up patient files with Katie when her cell phone rang. Her arms still loaded with the thick folders, she crossed the room, digging the phone out of the bottom of her bag, and then frowned at the name displayed on its face. During the fallout after the V.P. nomination fiasco, her father had spent more time in Washington than in Illinois. Apparently he was back however, because the familiar number scrolled across her screen indicated he was calling from the governor's mansion in Springfield.

She paused just a moment before casting an apologetic glance Katie's way and flipping the phone open, shifting her stack of files to her free hand. Cradling the phone between her jaw and shoulder, she took a deep breath. "Hi, Dad."

"Sara. Good…you picked up."

 _It wasn't as though he had been leaving numerous messages._ "Of course." She paused. "How are you?"

"Oh, alright I guess. Riding this thing out. Distancing myself from the Reynolds campaign as much as I can. Actually, that's what I wanted to talk with you about. Bruce is here, and your name's come up."

 _Shit. This was it. This was the call she had been dreading for over a month._ Sara lifted one hand up to her forehead, where a knot of pain was suddenly forming. She eyed the clock, ticking away what was left of her lunch hour, then Katie, waiting patiently to go over the last of the cases she was dictating. "Um, sure. Can it wait though? We're swamped here."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and when her father spoke again, Sara had no trouble detecting the thin thread of impatience lacing his voice. "I doubt it. Bruce is headed back into Chicago shortly. He-wait…hold on…"

She shifted her weight, transferring the files to her other arm while she held for him. Katie remained by the desk, glancing idly through a medical journal. _"Sorry,"_ Sara mouthed.

"Yeah, alright," her dad was saying. "Bruce will be back this weekend. We can shelve it until then. Why don't you come out…maybe Saturday?"

Sara squeezed her eyes shut for a beat. "Yeah. Sounds fine, Dad." She intended to add a cursory goodbye, but he swiftly changed the subject.

"Hey, in the meantime, a small favor?"

She felt her forehead crease slightly. "What do you need?"

"You remember a backer of mine, Ron Sucrain, agriculture and oil tycoon?"

"Uh, no Dad."

"Yes, you do. He ran for state commissioner last term." He paused, but Sara didn't bother to feign recognition. "Anyway, he called me up. His son is in Chicago for the week on business." He paused again. "He has two tickets to Evita at the Ford Center tomorrow night and knows no one in town."

Sara groaned. "Dad. You didn't tell him I'd-"

"Jesus, Sara. Would it really be such a chore? He's a nice guy, it's an A-list show. How bad could it be?"

Sara lowered her voice to a harsh whisper, but it didn't matter-Katie, through no fault of her own, could hear every word. "I cannot believe you didn't even ask me first if-"

"Honey. It's not as though you're seeing anyone, right?"

Sara felt as though she had been punched in the gut. She suddenly felt nauseous. "That's not the point."

"Are you free tomorrow night?"

"Dad, the thing is-"

"Are you free? It's a simple question, Sara."

She hesitated again, but really, she didn't know why she bothered. She had no recourse. She stared across her office from her position near the doorway, taking in the sight of her desk, her lab coat slung over her chair and her name badge clipped to the pocket. Her vision stumbled upon the carefully folded rose sitting behind the glass of her cabinet, and she sighed, knowing the man on the other end of the line could whisk it all away at the drop of a hat. That he probably _would,_ by this very weekend. She could hardly afford to piss him off. _Damn it._

"I'm free."

"Great. That's all I ask. His name's Eric. He's quite successful, Sara. Smart. I'll give him your number."

"Ok." She wondered if the defeat in her voice was as evident to her father as it was to Katie, now sitting up with piqued interest.

"I'll see you this weekend," her father added. "Oh, and Sara? Try and have some fun, alright?"

When she hung up a moment later, Katie was all ears. "My father is pimping me out," Sara noted dryly, glancing at the time before turning with a quick nod and starting down the hall. Katie followed, laughing as they headed toward Exam 3. Toward where Michael, always her first appointment of the afternoon, undoubtedly now waited, sitting with his customary casual grace on the edge of the exam table, biding his time until she walked in and he could steal her breath away.

"My 1 pm isn't here yet, is he?" she asked over her shoulder.

Katie was still chuckling. "I don't think so. So, who is it you have to play hostess for?" She was obviously loath to let the previous subject drop.

Sara looked down, thumbing through her files. "Some commissioner's son, apparently. We're seeing a production at the Ford Center, which no doubt will also include dinner at some trendy spot on Michigan Ave, because, of course, he'll feel the need to try and impress me in my own city."

"Hell, girl. If you don't want him, I'll go. It's a free night out. How bad could it be?"

"Now you sound like my father."

Katie was still grinning. "You never know. He's bound to be right about _something._ If things work out…"

"Things will not _work out,_ Katie."

"I'm just saying…shave your legs, that's all."

"Katie, please. I know this type, alright? Trust me. And hey… _I_ shave my legs."

Katie lifted both hands in mock surrender. "Well, I hope for your sake that he's at least easy on the eyes."

Sara only shook her head, picking out Michael's file and handing the rest back to Katie. "Will you leave these on my chair?" She made a face. "I guess they'll make for fascinating late night reading."

She caught Katie's look of mock exasperation just as she turned back toward the office with the files. "Yeah, you don't need a night out or anything," she retorted sarcastically over her shoulder, and finally, Sara grinned.

She was still smiling as she pivoted toward Exam 3. Suddenly she started, her face instantly sobering. She was standing two feet from Michael, sitting in a chair in the hallway by the closed door of the exam room. Her eyes widened, but she forced the smile to remain in place. "Hey," she breathed, suddenly fumbling with her key chain before finding the right key and fitting it in the lock.

He swallowed, then rose alongside her, awaiting entrance to the room. His face was completely unreadable, but as she opened the door and led the way inside, she felt his eyes burrowing directly into her. He settled onto the table, just as she had imagined mere seconds ago, but he didn't smile, and after she had allowed nearly a minute to pass in which neither of them spoke, she tried again.

"Everything alright?"

It was as though he had been waiting for her to break his self-imposed silence. "I certainly hope he's springing for the orchestra section," he said swiftly. His tone was benign and flat and devastatingly in control.

Sara felt her heart sinking. _Had he heard everything? God, what had she been thinking, blabbing with Katie in the hallway?_ "What?" she asked softly, and, she noted belatedly, not a little bit desperately.

"Or at least first balcony. The mezzanine is appalling at the Ford Center."

"Michael, stop…" Her own tone was somewhere between a reprimand and a plea, but she couldn't curb it.

"Sorry," he said swiftly but softly, and he did look it. Still, he swallowed tightly before turning his head away from her, his expression clearly pained, the planes of his cheekbones appearing impossibly fragile as he presented his profile for Sara's assessment, staring stubbornly out the slats of the window.

She sank down onto the stool at his knee. Tentatively, she reached for his hand. She slid her fingers over his wrist, rubbing the pad of her thumb in a slow arc across the finely corded tendons at the base of his arm until she felt them relax, if only slightly. "My father blindsided me," she told him softly. "I'm going out tomorrow as a personal favor to him, and nothing more."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me."

The echo of her own words, issued so long ago, reverberated in the small room. He might as well have doused cold water in her face. _"Don't I?"_ she asked. _If she didn't, what the hell were they doing, day-in and day-out?_

Her reaction was strong enough to shock him out of whatever apathy he was attempting to maintain. Finally, he looked at her. He nodded, tentatively at first, and then with increasing confidence. _"Yes,"_ he breathed, "you're right," as though he could scarcely believe it. As though the idea that their relationship, formed within the confines of these walls, held sway outside of them as well was something he had not previously dared to assume. Maybe he hadn't. He looked so relieved, his shoulders nearly sagging in gratitude as he bent closer to her, Sara felt a sudden lump in her throat. "You do," he nodded, as though still convincing himself. When he looked up at her, he was smiling, his hand curling around her knee gently. "We both do." 

She did explain herself, right then and there. In their remaining few minutes, she described, to the best of her knowledge, who she would be attending the theater with, and why, and by the time Michael left the infirmary, he had almost convinced himself this would be fine. That he wouldn't spend the next 48 hours in a thoroughly pissed-off mood.

The next day, she was uncharacteristically quiet, and he nudged her arm with his elbow playfully as she moved to clear his tray. "What are you wearing tonight?" he asked her.

She looked up quickly, eyeing him warily. "I don't know, Michael."

He slid her an incredulous look. She may be reluctant to discuss her evening plans, but he'd show her he wasn't. "Oh, please," he smiled. "You expect me to buy that?"

"As I've said, it's not something I'm particularly looking forward to."

He sat back on the exam table, bracing his hands behind him casually. "Ah. Well, say you _were_ looking forward to it. What would you wear then?"

She studied him carefully for a beat. When her eyes caught his, her mouth parted in subtle comprehension, and he watched as she blinked, her tongue darting out just perceivably to wet her lower lip. He held his breath. She _knew_ what he was asking. Finally, she smiled. "Well," she began slowly, peeling off her gloves and tossing them into the wastebasket, "I suppose, if this were a date I was anxiously awaiting, looking forward to for some time, I'd buy something new."

He tilted his head toward her in thought. "Something elegant and…black?" She opened her mouth to reply, but he quickly contradicted his own suggestion. "No…" he continued, inwardly debating. He eyed her until he swore he could literally see her squirming. "Something deep brown or maybe even green. I bet you're an autumn."

"A what?"

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about," he chided softly. He studied her anew, allowing his gaze to linger with painstaking attention to detail over the loose curls of hair that fell forward over her shoulder, the arch of her eyebrows, and the exposed curve of her neck as she sat below him. "Copper, hazel, cream…" he intoned, and with each listing of her tonal attributes, he flicked his eyes to each feature, blatantly, unashamedly, admiring her. "Autumn," he concluded. He watched the color rise up in her cheeks and along her neck, and offered her another slow smile. "Ah. Pink, too. Interesting."

She immediately flushed further, but she didn't look away. The smile fell from her face, and as his glance swept lower, he could see her chest rising and falling at a quickened pace. _"Michael,"_ she whispered, and in all his life, he had never heard his name uttered with such pure, undiluted desire. In such an appeal for something he could not deliver. Not yet.

"Buy the dress," he told her huskily. "But don't wear it tonight."


	8. Chapter 8

Year One

Month Three, Day 24

6:55 pm

By her third turn around the 600 block of St. Claire Street, Sara was beginning to give up hope of both finding parking spot _and_ being on time. She was also starting to reassess her stance on modern chivalry, wondering why it had seemed like such a good idea to insist upon meeting Eric Sucrain at the restaurant.

He had made seven o'clock reservations at Tru, Chicago's premiere eating experience according to both the Zagat guide and Katie, who had blinked in unabashed envy after prying the details out of Sara. Now, of course, _she_ was happily at home, putting her feet up, and here instead was Sara, finally finding a park four blocks away at the intersection of Claire and Michigan Ave. By the time she walked back to the entrance of the restaurant, she felt overheated and out-of-sorts.

She was wearing black. She hadn't been deceiving Michael…until his decidedly intriguing interest in the subject, and even after, as she raced home from Fox River just after five and stared into her closet, she had no idea what she was going to wear that evening. In the end, she had settled for classic simplicity; sleek sateen with spaghetti straps and strappy black heels. Glancing at her reflection on the way out the door, she had paused long enough to snag a favorite scarf from her coat rack and a more colorful clutch-without the more cheery accessories, she had looked as though she were going to a funeral.

Eric Sucrain was everything her father had described. He was successful and smart, and, Sara had to admit, he was just edgy enough to hold her interest. After a few awkward moments of uncomfortable silence after they had been seated at their table in the spacious main dining room of Tru, he had asked her about her work in India. The chosen topic surprised her; few of the conservative, white-collar men she was accustomed to socializing with ever made it any further down the bullet points of her resume than her current position in a men's penitentiary, let alone touch upon her work in poverty-stricken Calcutta. And what's more, he was genuinely interested, as was _she_ when he described his volunteer work in his home city of Cincinnati. When the waiter came by with a wine list in hand, Sara breathed a sigh of relief as Eric waved it away after only a cursory glance, joking that it would be too hard to make a selection now that she'd told him exactly how many flu vaccines could be purchased for the cost of just one bottle.

From beginning to end, dinner was pleasant, as was the 8 pm production at the Ford Center, and it was almost 11 pm when Eric dropped her back off at her car on St. Claire. He opened her door for her, then waited to the side as she unlocked her driver's-side door.

"So," he began, and Sara truly tried not to flinch, but yet again, what he said next was the last thing she expected. "Why do I get the feeling this is going entirely too well?"

She smiled, pausing on the interior side of her open door. "How do you mean?"

He smiled back at her. It was casual and warm, and she immediately felt herself relaxing. "Well, for starters, it's pretty obvious that you're perfect," he began, and she rolled her eyes dismissively while he laughed. "And you have to admit I'm not the pretentious jackass you assumed I'd be." She shook her head in a pathetic attempt at denial, but he merely grinned back before continuing. Sara felt herself growing tense again. "I'm no egomaniac, but I _know_ you've had a nice time, so I can only conclude there must be another reason that there's absolutely no way in hell you're going to let me within five feet of you right now."

He was still smiling, but all the same, Sara followed his gaze as it left her face to study the door of the car she'd managed to place between them. She smiled back a bit sheepishly before nodding. "I'm seeing someone," she agreed carefully, and due to the way she'd phrased it, she truly couldn't decide whether she was lying to Eric or not.

He looked displeased to have been proven right. "And since your own father suggested I ask you out tonight, I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that Governor Tancredi would not approve of said someone?"

The question made her want to laugh and cry both at once. "That," she finally answered slowly, "would be putting it mildly."

He nodded back at her ruefully, lifting both hands in mock exasperation. "I've never been good with timing, it seems."

Sara was forced to acknowledge this observation with her own sad chuckle, thinking of Michael sitting in a cell at this very moment while she was here, painfully available. "You and me both."

At home, she closed the door behind her and promptly began to cry. The sudden outburst caught her off-guard…she truly had thought she was weathering this evening well. All the same, she stood with her back to the door right there in the entry and sobbed, unable to explain precisely why. Maybe she was simply exhausted. Maybe she was lonely. Maybe she had actually had a nice time, and everything in her life felt like such a damned farce. After a long while, she kicked off her shoes and made her way to her bedroom, bothering only to peel off her dress before falling into bed.

She lay in the dark for a long time, a strange emptiness consuming her. Despite the fact that Eric was interesting and funny and thoughtful, she had spent the evening imagining an entirely different date sitting across from her. The fact that it could well be over four years before that simple fantasy could become reality stung more sharply every day, and never more acutely than tonight.

But when that day finally came, would it be enough? My God, would it live up to the hype? As she lay there, staring up at the darkened ceiling, she tried to reconstruct the evening, imagining that the wait for Michael was finally over. She closed her eyes, picturing _him_ standing outside a trendy restaurant in a sharp suit to escort her inside instead of some random acquaintance of her father's, and she wondered, once they were free to be together, whether the appeal-the attraction and chemistry that very nearly knocked her off balance every day in the infirmary-would remain, or whether it would be lost without the added kick of danger and rebellion.

It was a very real fear, because she knew herself entirely too well. As miserable as she was, she couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't a part of her that enjoyed all this. The sneaking around, the stolen kisses, the forbidden fruit. If she were honest, it felt to her like chasing a high. It made her feel alive, and it terrified her, and in the end, it all came down to a simple truth: _she should know better._ She should know by now that men like Eric Sucrain were the right choice for her life, not men like Michael Scofield.

But this was the very point that confused her the most. This was what, in hindsight, had brought the sudden onslaught of tears. She was used to making devastatingly poor choices, but no matter how honest she tried to be with herself, she couldn't count Michael among them. It was this fact that left her strangely bereft. It left her feeling out of control, and she did not like that feeling. Falling for Michael felt more like achingly unfair irony than any fault of her own, and the fact that she regretted nothing hardly helped the loneliness and isolation that surrounded her in her daily life. In her own home. In her own bed. He wasn't a mistake He wasn't a thrill, nor was he a distraction or a rebellion or a fling, and honestly, that left only one option. _He was for real._ He was the real thing, and as she finally found sleep, Sara wasn't sure if this fact was a blessing or a curse.

 _Month Three, Day 25_

1:02 pm

She could feel his eyes on her the instant she walked into the exam room the following day. Such attention wasn't unusual in itself, but Michael's determinedly cheerful opening line certainly was.

"You don't look hung over, at least."

She cocked her head in surprise. _"I_ don't drink," she retorted amusedly, and then paused in her path to the cabinet, remembering only belatedly that an entire chapter of her life still remained hidden from him. His face revealed piqued interest.

"Never?"

A quick rush of guilt swept through her, but still, she kept her tone light. _This was hardly the time for personal history lessons._ She shook her head easily. "Never."

"Well, I would have felt better had I known that yesterday," he deadpanned, and she smiled, but said nothing more as she turned to gather her supplies. Michael remained silent as well until she slid across the linoleum to him on the stool, the medical tray balanced on her lap. When her face was less than six inches away, he spoke again. "You're not really going to make me continue to pry, are you?"

She looked up from the sharp in her hands. "I wore black and had a miserable time," she smiled, and he grinned back in relief before his brow wrinkled slightly in doubt.

"Did you really have a miserable time?"

She took her time turning his arm over to expose the plane of inked skin she sought with the needle. "No," she admitted steadily, "but that doesn't mean I didn't wish I could have been spending the evening with someone else entirely." She looked up at him, unsurprised to find him already staring at her. "A fact that I made quite clear."

She heard the door open, but was unable to glance up, needing to keep her eyes trained on the injection she was administering. Michael's eyes snapped to the door, however, and then she felt his arm stiffen under her fingertips. "Then what the hell is this?"

She finally looked up with a frown to see her orderly setting a bouquet of flowers on the adjacent counter-top. Her entire mood deflated instantly. _Unbelievable._ "They're probably from my dad," she said swiftly, "thanking me for being a good sport." She withdrew the needle and swiveled quickly to retrieve a square of gauze. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Michael's hand move to stop her, then hesitate, finally resting again on his leg. The intensity of his gaze, however, had gone up a notch or two or three.

"Read the note and see," he requested, his tone flat. He shrugged, a forced gestured added almost belatedly, and it was this transparent attempt to convey apathy that sent Sara back across the exam room to the counter to unenthusiastically detach the card. She tore open the tiny envelope and scanned the square card swiftly.

 _Lacking your home address, I had to send these here. I hope it doesn't cause you any trouble with the inmates. I don't imagine that my timing has improved from last night until today, but f nothing more, I very much enjoyed your company last night. -Eric_

 _Damn._ She reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose tightly. _No, no trouble at all, Eric. And also? No, your timing certainly hasn't improved._ With a sigh, she held the card out to Michael.

He sank backward as though she were offering him a snake. "I'm not interested in reading your mail."

Sara exhaled again, more forcefully this time. She lifted both hands in a sign of her very real exasperation, then tossed the card back onto the counter. "It's just a courtesy note," she said softly. She watched Michael swallow. "Just a thank you."

"Does he have your number? Is he going to be calling?"

"No, he-"

"Does he come to Chicago often?"

" _No."_ She glanced out into the hallway, catching her reflection in the glass of the window. Her posture was rigid, her jaw clenched. She took another breath, forcing herself to look for all the world as though she were carrying on the most mundane of doctor-patient consultations. "Michael, don't do this."

"Don't do what?" He tone was still perfectly measured, his poker face much more firmly in place than her own, a fact that Sara found angered her far more than Eric's stupid flowers. "Am I mistaken, or did you tell me just yesterday that I _do_ have a say in your life? That I can have an opinion?"

The last sentence was delivered in a fierce whisper, and Sara shot him a warning glance. She strode to the corner of the room to draw the privacy screen. "Shirt," she demanded.

His eyes flicked to hers in a brief flash of defiance before he complied. "I feel like I'm treading water here," he whispered, the last few words nearly lost in the muffled sweep of his shirt as it came up and off, "never getting anywhere-

"Never getting anywhere with _me,_ you mean?"

He looked up at her sharply. "You know what I mean! Do you realize how _…impotent_ I feel? How powerless?"

"Michael. I understand that, but you're not-"

"You _don't_ understand, because every single day, you get to walk away. And knowing that some guy is on the other side of these walls, waiting for you, gives me enough justification to go a little bit berserk, don't you think?"

"I don't _want_ anyone out there!" she hissed, standing awkwardly before him in the shadow of the screen. "Don't you think I know it would be easier on both of us if I did? You think this doesn't make me just as crazy?!"

He only drew a ragged breath, releasing it harshly, and she sank down onto the stool in defeat. "I want _you,"_ she breathed, and didn't care when the final syllable ended on a slight sob. _"Damn_ it, Michael, that's all I want."

He touched a finger to her cheek, but she kept her head down, staring at the blue and white pattern of the linoleum, trying very hard to keep each octagon in focus as she willed back tears. He leaned closer, cupping her face with his entire hand, the pad of his thumb softly grazing her temple in the way he _knew_ sent goose bumps to erupt across her skin, but even then, she resisted for a full ten clicks from the wall-mounted clock above them, her chin stubbornly stiff, before relenting. Then, she allowed herself to yield to his touch, sinking her face into the curve of his hand. "I don't even like flowers," she choked, and she heard him exhale again, but this time, it was in an abrupt, harsh laugh.

"I know."

She was still feeling the urge to be stubborn. "Good."

They remained in place for longer than both of them knew they should, but still, Sara felt Michael attempt to shift away twice before he accomplished it. When he finally did draw back, he looked as though he were fighting very hard not to speak.

"What?" Sara asked.

He swallowed tightly. "I still don't understand why you went out last night in the first place." She frowned. "You stand up to your father all the time," he continued. "Why not now? Did you doubt-"

"No."

"Then did you figure you'd at least see if maybe you couldn't be happier-"

"Michael, no."

"Then _what?"_ She could tell he was trying very hard not to lose his patience all over again, but if his face, flushed and drawn, was any indication, Sara could see it was a losing battle.

 _It was all a losing battle, and suddenly, she was tired of fighting it alone._ She glanced quickly at the clock…they had three minutes tops. "I had to go last night," she began, "because things are different between my father and me now." She was pleased to hear how steady her voice sounded in the silent room. She closed her eyes briefly before plunging forward. If she was going to explain this, she'd better do it fast. "The night you first kissed me-the night your brother was granted clemency-I was the one who drove to Springfield and presented my father with the information on his case." Before her, Michael had gone quite still. She certainly had his attention. "He granted Lincoln clemency, as you know, but my father is not one to miss out on an opportunity when he sees one. His signature came with stipulations. Personal ones. Ones that effect me and, unbeknownst to him, effect you."

Michael was stunned. He listened to Sara explain in one nervous rush, concluding with her scheduled trip out to Springfield this weekend, his mouth literally gaping. The scope of the sacrifices this woman had already made for him-just the ones he was aware of-already kept him off balance on a daily basis with abject, heady gratitude, but now? _This?_ The knowledge that Sara had offered up the career she loved-not to mention the independence from her father that she clearly craved-in exchange for his brother's clemency had Michael reeling.

"Sara," he began, but had to stop, swallowing. She had moved away from him, delivering her news from the distance of the medical cabinets, and he looked over at her almost pleadingly. She took a step in his direction, but no more. They had less than a minute together; they were likely to be interrupted at any moment by an impatient orderly or even Katie. "I can't fathom such a sacrifice for my brother," he whispered.

Her voice was equally hushed. "Can't you?"

He waved away the rhetorical question. The near-constant sense of time slipping away from them had now taken on additional meaning. Never mind their lack of minutes remaining in this appointment. Michael was now painfully aware that a far worse threat of separation was looming. The fact that on Saturday-this Saturday-she would be meeting with her father to essentially uphold her end of the bargain was suddenly at the forefront of his mind. For all Michael knew, after Friday _-tomorrow-_ she wouldn't be coming back.

It was on the tip of his tongue to reveal to her all these fears, to tell her all the ways in which her absence from Fox River simply wasn't acceptable, but of course, as always, he was silenced. They heard the doorknob turning, and then a cheery-faced intern was poking his head around the threshold. "We have that head wound in 2, Dr. Tancredi," he informed her, and Michael watched Sara straighten and nod.

She looked back at Michael, her mouth opening as though to speak, and then the door swung open again, and Michael's guard hovered before them both, waiting impatiently to escort him back to A Wing. Michael had time-and opportunity considering his audience-only to thank her once before he was led away.

*****

 _Month Three, Day 26_

 _12:59 pm_

Fridays were always busy. Inmates made last minute requests for appointments before the weekend, a phenomenon that Sara suspected had as much to do with the fact that an aging male doctor took her place on Saturdays and Sundays as it did with any actual ailments that couldn't wait, and today didn't disappoint. Sara had three additional appointments squeezed into her afternoon, which meant that every other patient's time was cut in half. _Which meant that Michael's time was cut in half._

When she told him, he looked as dismayed as she felt. In fact, he looked almost ill. She eyed him more closely. "Are you alright?"

He shook his head. He looked pale, and Sara wondered how much he had slept. "No," he verbalized, speaking almost under his breath. "Not at all."

"Michael-"

"Listen to me. I was thinking. If…if I don't see you Monday, I'm going to send Veronica back around, alright?"

"Michael, you'll see me Monday."

He shook his head fiercely. "You don't know that."

"I'm not going to just leave without notice."

"You don't know that," he repeated, and he sounded so desperate, her voice caught somewhere at the back of her throat. She couldn't answer. He was right. She _didn't_ know. Instead, she reached for his tray and drew up beside him. "Did you sleep last night?"

"No." He paused, his brow furrowing as though weighing the merits of disclosing more. "I was thinking," he said eventually.

Sara tore open the packaging of the new sharp. "About?"

He only looked pointedly at her. Sitting directly opposite him on the stool, she felt the intensity of his gaze like the blaze of a furnace. His face sobered further, almost apologetically. She frowned, and then, suddenly, realization dawned. _"Oh."_

To her surprise, he looked away, his face still pained. "I'm sorry," he told her, and she shook her head, startled.

"Why?" She felt herself blushing. "I, um, I have my own sleepless nights."

He looked back at her, something glinting in his eyes for just an instant before he frowned anew. "But when it's me, it's suddenly creepy. It's some inmate, sitting in a cell, thinking about-" He swallowed tight again, and started over. "My God, Sara, these men…I can't be…I won't be one of these guys. It's disgusting."

Sara grimaced. That was the last connotation she wanted to connect with Michael. She set the supplies aside, glancing up at the clock. Only five minutes remaining. She suddenly felt emboldened. She cocked her head to one side, assessing him almost coyly. "Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

He looked at her in confusion. "I'm the one you're afraid of offending, right? she pressed, and with the door securely closed, she leaned closer, placing a single kiss to the back of his ear. "So tell me. Tell me what kept you up last night."

He looked at her as though she had just requested he strip buck naked. In a manner of speaking, perhaps she had. But she didn't care. They had three minutes remaining. She glanced up at the sound of the industrial click. _Make that two._ Michael's eyes followed hers to the clock and then back to her face. He was obviously still deliberating, and she had just decided she regretted suggesting it when he reached for her hand.

"Well, come here, then."

She smiled as though Christmas has just come early. And oh my God, it _had._ He whispered into her ear, his voice smooth as honey against her skin, and while he began a bit haltingly, he quickly gained confidence until his words were explicit enough to cause the heat to rise in Sara's face. He described to her everything he had evidently pondered the night before, detailing for her every calculated movement of his hands and his mouth. _Of hers._ He spoke deliberately…slowly…into the bell of her ear in a precise manner only Michael could make dizzyingly sexy.

With every whispered word, Sara felt her heart pounding harder, her fingers gripping the edge of the exam table until her knuckles shone white. She closed her eyes, but it didn't ease the overload of sensation Michael was pouring into her ear. Instead, she wondered if this was how he felt, day-in and day-out, as he grappled with his LLI. The images of what he was describing were flashing through her mind until she could practically feel his hands on her, his mouth on her. Until she could practically-but not quite-taste the salt on his skin and feel the tease of his tongue on her lip. His words were rapidly shifting from exquisite pleasure to torture with every syllable, and finally, she caved, leaning her head into his chest with a low moan.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked. He was breathless now, his chest was rising and falling rapidly.

"No. Yes." She shook her head against him. "No." She felt his arm coming up to encircle her, and reluctantly-so reluctantly it hurt-she pulled back from him. She had to. Not only was the infirmary crowded, but if she didn't put at least a few inches of space between them, she was in danger of crawling into his lap.

When she chanced a look back in his direction, he appeared paler than ever. "This isn't going to work," he said.

She felt a quick surge of warning flare to life in her belly. "What isn't?"

His face was set as firmly as chiseled stone. "I need you alone."

"What?" she repeated.

He looked almost panicked. "Before you go, Sara. We have to be alone."

Their time was up, and the door was opening. "Michael-"

"Stay late tonight," he blurted, just before the C.O. stepped into the room. "Just a bit late. Please?"

She almost shook her head-there was no way he could get another appointment-but the determination on his face stopped her. She nodded, if only to make him happy, and then he was gone.

To Michael's way of thinking, there was only one place in all of Fox River, minus the conjugal room, which he adamantly pushed from his mind, that would afford them with four walls, no windows, and a door that closed behind them. And it was easy enough to get there.

The mess hall was teaming with both inmates and guards, but that hardly mattered. An audience was just fine with him. He waited in line in the midst of the slow shuffle of men at the food counter, filling his tray with some sort of meatloaf with gravy, and then turned casually toward a table. Halfway across the room, he spotted Officer Bellick standing in the doorway, smiling smugly and twirling a thick key ring absently on one stubby finger. Michael grinned at his luck. _If he had to do it, he might as well enjoy it._

He turned to Sucre and nodded toward an empty bench. "I'll be right there," he said, then set his tray on an adjacent table-top under the guise of bending to tie his shoe. Once Sucre had strode a reasonable distance away, he picked up his tray and walked swiftly toward Bellick. As soon as he had caught his attention, he winked, and then, without ceremony-and without an ounce of hesitation-he very deliberately and very forcefully dumped the full contents of his tray directly onto his ample midsection.

The fresh welts from the blunt end of Bellick's bully club still stung, but not enough to keep the grin from Michael's face as he was hauled off to Ad Seg. Once ensconced in the narrow confines of the single cell, he stood directly in front of the door, kicking rhythmically until finally, almost an hour after being locked in, a C.O. paused outside the thick door. "Scofield! Shut the hell up!"

 _Kick, kick, kick._ He heard the C.O. curse, then walk away, only to return with another guard. This one sounded familiar. "Scofield! You ok in there?" Michael said nothing, expending his energy instead on adding punches to the door in conjunction with the kicks, listening as the two C.O.'s conferred amongst themselves. "He's gone off the rails in here before, man," the second one said to the first, and on the other side of the door, Michael kicked harder, his toes aching as he increased his thuds against the dense metal. "Scofield!"

He still didn't answer, and when the peep hole in the door slid open, cutting a sharp slant of light into the cell, Michael had no trouble staring wide-eyed at the guard who peered in, his pupils dilated as he rocked in place, holding his boot-clad toes. His perseverance, as well as acting skills he hadn't known he possessed, paid off. "Just as I figured," the more seasoned C.O. said to his colleague. "He's lost it, and has probably broken his foot in the process." The thin slot slammed closed again and Michael was cast once again in darkness. "Call up to the infirmary," he heard the guard instruct with what sounded like a weary sigh. "See if the doc's still around."

Sara had a very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach as she searched for every possible excuse to remain in her office a little bit longer. It was nearly 8 pm, and she had just updated the last file on her desk when her intercom buzzed to life. "Dr. Tancredi?"

She nearly knocked over her bottle of water in her hasty reach for the talk button. "Yes."

"We've got Michael Scofield in Ad Seg. He's freaking out. Do you have time to come check it out?"

 _Ad Seg. Of course._ Her heart began to pound, but whether in dismay or elation she couldn't begin to say. "I'll be right there."

She crossed Fox River in record time, and before she could even begin to gather her thoughts, she was standing, slightly breathless, in the bare hallway outside Ad Seg cell #3.

"What's he doing?" she asked hesitantly of the first of the C.O.s who hovered nearby.

"Listen for yourself," he sighed. She paused, hearing a series of dull thuds.

"Kicking?"

"Having himself a full-scale tantrum, more like."

Sara was forced to stifle a sudden smile. _Tantrum, indeed._ She'd like to have one herself. Still, she forced herself to seem just as jaded and annoyed as the guards. "Mind if I…?"

"Be my guest," the C.O. responded, waving one arm in invitation toward the door. The other unlocked it, but didn't slide it fully open.

"Michael?" she called, her head tilted toward the door, straining to hear. She forced her voice to remain as neutral as possible. "It's Dr. Tancredi."

The kicking stopped, and she turned back, nodding to the C.O. "Open it please."

When the door slid open, Michael was sitting with his back to the side wall, his head turned to the doorway, staring at her blankly. It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. "Lights, please?"

They flared to life, and Michael blinked. Sara turned back toward the doorway. "Give us a moment?"

The guard nearest looked dubious, but the other shrugged. "She talked him down last time," he conceded, and then, amazingly, the door was sliding back closed, clicking shut with a sound as loud as a starting gun in the silent cell.

Michael wasted no time. He sprang to his feet, reaching for her arm and guiding her back against the far side of the thick door.

"What are you _doing?"_ she whispered desperately. She meant here, in Ad Seg, but he took her question literally.

"This is the only corner of the room they can't spot through the peep hole," he answered swiftly. "I checked." Then her back was making contact with the door and Michael's hands were making contact with her skin. She had time only to suck in a quick breath before his mouth was on hers, his fingers sliding around to the back of her head to cradle it against the cold steel. He kissed her hard enough to make her wonder if her lips would be bruised in the morning, and then she stopped thinking altogether. She closed her eyes, hearing only Michael's heart pounding-or was she only detecting its vibrations against her own chest?-and marking the cadence of the near-violent thrum of her pulse echoing in her ears. He paused for a breath, angling her head with a shift of his hands, and then he was tipping her face back to him, kissing her deeper. Harder. His tongue swept against hers, stroking in arcs that consumed not only her entire mouth but sent tremors of desire to lick down her spine and then along her chest and belly until her breasts and her groin nearly throbbed with want. She reached almost blindly for him, running her hands down his back to cup his behind and draw him closer. He groaned.

Sara was soft and compliant against him; he was sinking into the curves of her with the exacting precision that he had imagined for months and had described to her only hours before and now had him painfully, impossibly aching. _Painfully, impossibly hard._ Surely they had less time at their disposal than they'd ever had in the partial privacy of the infirmary, but still, even as he kissed her, even as his hands slid from her face to frame her ribs, and then lower to slip underneath the hem of her shirt, he found himself trying to slow down. Trying to savor what he knew full well he needed to gulp. To inhale.

She must have sensed it. Her eyes, previously closed, slid back open. "Don't stop," she breathed, and his hands rose up her body just as a rap sounded at the door.

"Dr. Tancredi? Everything alright?"

His hands stilled instantly, his thumbs barely grazing the underside of her breasts under her shirt. He watched her suck in a tight breath. She closed her eyes again. "Fine," she called out to the C.O. "Just need a moment."

She looked back up at Michael, and he held her gaze as his hands traveled upward again. When his palms finally closed over her breasts, cupping the warm weight of them, his own breath caught in his throat. He studied her face, watching as she bit her bottom lip and then pressed still closer to him, laying her head against his shoulder before seeking his mouth again. He caressed her through the thin silk of her bra, stroking his fingertips against the raised jut of her nipples and listening to the incredibly erotic hitch of her breath. He bent to kiss her through her shirt, and she whimpered, the sound muffled against the pale blue cotton of his prison uniform.

It was the sight of the uniform, Fox River stamped in cheap ink across one shoulder, that triggered the sudden wave of aversion to rise up and break with a deafening crash in Michael's mind. He looked down at the sight of his hands-an inmate's hands-spanning the delicate lace of her bra, and all at once, it didn't matter whether she welcomed it. At this instant, he couldn't convince himself he was different than the others with whom he shared this prison. Every ounce of self-doubt he'd ever experienced seemed to roll back upon him ten-fold, surging forward on a tide of misgiving, and he stepped back, his hands sliding off her body. Suddenly, to his eyes, his every fingerprint upon her skin was glowing as though under a black light. As though exposed and scrutinized. _He'd had his hands all over her,_ he thought erratically, as if only now connecting himself to some grave crime, and he was horrified. But that was crazy. Perhaps this room…this place…really did get to him.

Sara turned her head to look swiftly toward the seal of the door. When she saw they hadn't been interrupted, she looked at him in abject confusion. _"Michael?"_

In the whitewashing light of the bright overheads, Sara's skin shone as pale as the innermost petal of a rose, or _oh God,_ as any one of the exquisite flowers gracing her desk, and it was startlingly clear to Michael that she deserved so much more from him than this. He had been right in the infirmary earlier. _He was a cliché._ He was cheapening everything he felt for her.

Of course, now, Sara was watching him in undisguised concern, and he knew he was sending the antithesis of the message he wanted to convey. "Sara," he tried to rectify, "I'm sorry." She sucked in a sharp breath, and _oh,_ that was the wrong thing to say. She was stepping aside, her eyes scanning his face rapidly, obviously hoping see the missing piece to whatever puzzle was scattered in her mind.

"No, wait." He reached again for her.

"Dr. Tancredi?"

Both of their eyes flew to the door. She tugged at her shirt, a movement that sent an addition shot of pain through Michael's gut. "I'm coming," she called, and Michael pinched his eyes shut. They heard the shuffle of impatient footsteps in the hallway, but the door remained shut.

 _"_ _Sara."_ She looked at him in abject hurt. He could explain this. _He had to explain this._ Her eyes flicked back to his, searching, questioning, and in a moment of desperate impulse, he knew there was time only for one sentence, and with stunning clarity, he knew exactly which one it had to be. Just before the door slid open, just before the C.O. stepped inside, Michael moved to her abruptly, his lips nearly grazing the curve of Sara's ear. _"I love you,"_ he whispered swiftly-desperately-and then the C.O. was standing directly before them and she was walking out of the cell into the gray hallway. 

It took every ounce of will power for Sara to keep her eyes trained forward as she walked down the hall back to A Wing. She could not look back, because she knew if she did, the guard escorting her would read the maelstrom of emotion laid bare all over her face. He would know, surely, what Michael had just said. He would read the three words in her eyes, in the curve of her smile, tentative at first, and in the flush of her cheeks. _He would know._

Despite the knowledge that Michael would likely be spending his entire weekend in solitary, the fog in her head was clearing, all the other events of the evening parting for the one simple conclusion Michael had drawn for her, well after Sara left Fox River for the night. She slept with the whisper of his words in her ear, and even the next morning, his voice was still echoing in her mind like the memory of a caress-his caress-as she climbed into her car and turned south onto the interstate toward Springfield.


	9. Chapter 9

Month Three

Day 27

8:30 am

Sara didn't encounter any traffic driving out of Chicago so early on a Saturday morning, and in record time, she was on the 55, the early autumn sun bright on the half-harvested fields of grain and barley stretching out across the flat plains on either side of her. Flipping the sun visor down to reduce the glare, her mind flashed upon the thought of Michael in the pitch black of the SHU, and she grimaced before trying to force the image of him, alone all weekend to stare at nothing but darkness, out of her mind. It didn't work, and so instead, she relived the feel of his hand sliding around her wrist, guiding her back into the steel door of the cell, the warmth of his mouth covering hers in a way that made her feel completely free and completely- _exhilaratingly_ -entrapped all at once. She imagined more time, less clothing, different settings and circumstances, and before she knew it, she was slowing through the small town of Pontiac, halfway to Springfield, and wondering vaguely how fast she had been driving.

She entered the capitol city just before eleven, and by the time she reached the gates of the governor's mansion, her stomach was beginning to flutter slightly with nerves. She wasn't even in the house yet, and she was already feeling vaguely defenseless and cornered. She was already ready to argue. To protest. She feared her father's meeting meant the worst, but simply put, she couldn't bear to leave Fox River now. It was unfair enough that she and Michael had only minutes a day together, always monitored, always watched. It was bad enough that he had told her he loved her- _loved her!-_ and she had been powerless to do anything but walk away. It was bad enough that he had over four years to serve before he was free; she knew that if she was going to be forced to spend that length of time with no contact whatsoever, she wasn't entirely sure she could do it. In fact, she was fairly certain she couldn't.

The security detail waved her through the main gate and she continued up the sloping drive, skirting the building to park in her usual spot behind the east wing. She walked through a side door, nodding to yet another agent as he stepped aside with a friendly smile of recognition.

"Is my father in his study, Martin?" she asked.

He shook his head. "On the veranda, Miss. They're expecting you."

 _They're._ So she would be dealing with Bruce, as well. She passed through the formal sitting room with its cream walls and high ceilings to the open French doors that led out to the gardens. Her father and Bruce were situated at an outdoor table, several newspapers and cups of coffee scattered between them. If Sara didn't know better, she'd think they'd been spending a lazy Saturday morning basking in the sunshine and catching up on world events. She _did_ know better, however.

She had awaited her father's verdict many, many times over the years; she had been jerked around, and redirected, and often enough, it had been justified, but never had she felt she stood so much to lose. Suddenly she felt twelve years old again.

 _She was an adult, damn it. Even in this house. Even before this man._ She squared her shoulders and took a bracing breath. "Dad," she greeted, and as she turned her gaze toward the other end of the table, she was pleased with the confident tone of her voice. She was in control. _She was not a child._ "Bruce."

Her father seemed to be a good mood. She wasn't sure whether to take that as a good sign or bad. "Sara. There you are." He rose, his lips brushing her cheek as she set her handbag down on the table.

Bruce looked up and smiled. "Good drive?" he asked.

Sara smiled back, her mind immediately flashing upon its earlier musings regarding Michael and solitary cells and hands and mouths and skin. "Quite good, thanks."

She sat when her father pulled out a chair for her, and a minute later, she was sipping tea and eyeing both men guardedly. "So."

Neither of them seemed to notice her apprehension. "So," her dad repeated, "how was the thing with the Sucrain kid? Eric?"

She offered him a mild nod over the rip of her cup. "It was nice," she acknowledged. "He's a nice guy."

Her father smiled ruefully. "Ah. Well then that's a dead end, isn't it?"

He glanced over at Bruce, who chuckled. Sara didn't exactly resent it-she'd known Bruce her entire life, and he'd certainly been privy to the colorful milestones of her childhood and beyond-but she found her defensiveness racking up a notch all the same. "That's not fair," she countered mildly. "People change, you know."

Her dad looked to her in surprise. "Really?"

He sounded so hopeful, Sara wished she'd never opened her mouth. "I mean, things with Eric didn't work out, but-"

"Ah."

"Dad-"

He held up a hand. "Truce, Sara. I didn't drag you all the way down here to argue with you over your love life. I have given _up."_

Across from her, Bruce smiled into his coffee cup again, and Sara had to swallow her tea quickly for fear of choking on it. _Good to know,_ she thought sardonically. Deciding that suspense was highly overrated, she took a deep breath and changed the subject. "So why _did_ you bring me down here?" she asked. "Besides the fact that you miss me terribly, of course."

"I do miss you, Sara." Frank shifted in his seat. "But you know the drill. My time in Washington is part of the package. And in light of this recent VP mess, I think Bruce and I have hammered out a new PR strategy. In short, it's best for me to distance myself as much as possible from Reynolds." Across the table, Bruce nodded. "Since I already veered so sharply from her agenda on the Burrows case," Frank continued, looking pointedly at Sara, "the party thinks it best if I continue to show some consistency in this new stance on crime. Apparently my decision concerning Burrows made me look sympathetic. According to some recent polls, having you at Fox River, especially in the role you provide as a caregiver-a part of the solution-softens my image."

Sara set her glass down slowly. "So you're saying my position at Fox River works in your favor," she clarified. Frank nodded, but Sara still found herself holding her breath _. Could it be that this meeting had nothing to do with her being presented with a new job?_

"And you don't want me to leave?"

Frank frowned. "You like your job, right?"

"Very much."

He waved one hand in the air almost dismissively, as though the whole conversation hadn't been initiated by him. "Then keep it."

It was as though a huge weight had been lifted from Sara's shoulders, and for a moment, she sat dumbstruck, afraid she had somehow heard her father incorrectly. Eventually, she smiled from her father to Bruce, but her relief was, as she should have guessed, short-lived.

"Now that that's settled, there _is_ another urgent matter to discuss," Frank added. "But we need to head into the study." He turned to Bruce. "You brought the disk?" 

Five minutes later, Sara was perched on the edge of the settee in her father's study, watching a computer screen as a video clip began to play. It had the dark, grainy quality of a surveillance video, but even so, she had no trouble recognizing the concrete and steel setting that stretched the length of the monitor. She frowned, wondering why she was looking at a seemingly average day in A-Wing, when she realized the clip was going in fast forward, and suddenly, nothing about the cell block was average at all. She watched as chaos broke out on the screen before her, men running, trash flying from the tiers, and instantly, she knew precisely why this particular day had been preserved on tape.

 _The Fox River riots were playing out before her._ She had known this footage must exist, at least in bits and pieces, but almost as though in an unspoken promise to herself, she'd never asked about it, and she'd never had any desire to view it.

She whirled abruptly toward her father. "Is this to remind me how dangerous my job is?" she asked tersely.

Frank looked over from the screen to eye her. "There's something you need to see."

Sara spun quickly back to the monitor. _Shit. Did he mean…could one of the security cameras have somehow caught evidence of herself and Michael? And if so, what would it reveal? Collaboration? Cooperation? No…certainly more than that. Connection. Attraction._

She let out a breath, grateful for the knowledge that if her voice shook as she responded, it was to be expected. It could be easily attributed to the onslaught of memory such a video would trigger in anyone in her situation. "I was there, Dad, thanks," she said as curtly as she could. She rose. "I don't exactly want to relive it."

Beside her, Bruce rose as well. "I told you Frank. It's only natural that she wouldn't want to view it. Just tell her-"

"Sara," Frank interrupted. "Please. Sit."

She sank back down into her seat. She glanced toward the screen anxiously, but it wasn't revealing the sick bay, herself, or, God forbid, Michael. Instead, it was still recording a distant corner of A-Wing.

"Right about…now," Frank prompted, pointing to the computer, and Sara straightened as she saw two figures run into the frame at the bottom right corner.

"Lincoln," she breathed, and bending down beside her, Frank nodded. "But we were hoping you could identify the inmate with him."

She strained her eyes, trying to make out the man's features. Whoever it was, Lincoln was intent upon following him through the maze of cat tracks above the cell block. It wasn't until the man turned, suddenly attacking Lincoln with an unexpected force that left Sara gasping in shock, that she got a clear view of his face.

"It's John Turk," she breathed. "But he…he was one of the casualties of the riot."

Bruce leaned eagerly toward Sara. "What do you know about him?" he asked, but Sara barely heard him. She was too distracted by the sight of Turk beating Lincoln, their grainy bodies a single blur in the gray wash of the videotape.

"Um," she answered, her eyes still glued to the screen, "in for aggravated assault I think? I've seen him for a few appointments." She shook her head, flinching as she watched him throw Lincoln to the ground. "But he was mild mannered…quiet and polite. This…this doesn't make sense."

"It does considering the string of phone records we've uncovered between himself and one of Reynolds' advisors."

Sara looked up from the screen swiftly. "What?"

"We suspect he was hired to kill Lincoln that day."

"Wait. By _Reynolds?"_

Bruce nodded. "Of course, that probably shouldn't surprise us," he said sardonically. "She's been trying to kill him for years."

"But what you're suggesting," Sara began. "What you're saying is…"

"He's saying there's more than one way to kill a man in Fox River," her father interjected. "As you are certainly aware, Sara."

She turned toward her father. "but why are you analyzing this tape now?"

"Because in light of Lincoln Burrow's exoneration, there's every reason to believe Reynolds has hired someone else to finish the job. And given your…proximity…to the Burrows case, and considering the fact that you're going to remain at Fox River, I want you to be aware of the possible situation at hand."

"I rarely see Lincoln Burrows, Dad."

"But you're in daily contact with his brother, right?"

The question seemed to come out of nowhere, hitting her like a sucker punch, although in hindsight, Sara realized she should have been expecting it. The tape playing out before her was proof enough that her father had clearly been doing his research on Fox River in general and anyone connected to Lincoln in particular. Now, he was looking at her steadily, and it took all of Sara's willpower not to flush.

She held his gaze, then nodded. "Michael. Yes." She swallowed, and forced herself to shrug. "He's a diabetic…in every afternoon for a shot of insulin. But he rarely mentions his brother."

"But you have a good rapport."

Her eyes flicked away from her father. "I guess so."

Frank shot her a look of abject challenge, and then reached across Bruce to the keyboard. He skipped the tape forward to a pre-set position. "Good enough to stand in his crossfire, I'd say," he observed, and Sara blinked at the image of the back of her own head, Michael facing the camera, his wide-eyed gaze sweeping desperately from her face down to the tiny red bead of the sniper's rifle illuminated upon his chest and back up again.

 _Oh._ Seeing it from this vantage point, as some third-person off-center from the action, was unnerving. Sara leaned forward, eager to watch despite herself. "That was just before I got out of the building," she said slowly. She chanced a glance up to her father; he was still watching her intently. _Had he seen more? What did he know?_ She squared her shoulders. "He chanced upon me…helped me get out," she said. In her mind, she was reliving the startling grasp of his hand on her shoulder, the surge of fear that had encompassed her as she had whirled to confront its owner. She saw his fingers outstretched…beckoning…his face earnest, his eyes pleading through the smoke of the room. A rush of something she didn't dare analyze-not now, not in this room under this scrutiny-flooded through her, as warm and sure as his hands encircling her ribs as she dropped from the ceiling, her feet finally touching solid ground. As real as the sight of his parted lips, his eyes on her own mouth, his body radiating heat and sweat and fear.

 _She couldn't do this._ Her thoughts felt loud, practically broadcasted to her father and Bruce in the near-silent room. She stood so abruptly from the settee, its legs scraped loudly across the polished wooden floor. "Bruce was right, Dad," she said tightly. "I don't want to watch this."

"And I just want to open your eyes a bit, Sweetheart." She turned determinedly away from her father under the guise of reaching for her purse, but he continued talking anyway. "First Michael Scofield helps you escape during the riots, and then suddenly you're aiding in his brother's unrelenting quest for exoneration."

Sara turned back swiftly, one hand raking roughly through her hair as she scrambled to defend herself. "He was innocent of the crime he was incarcerated for! We've been through this already!"

Frank waved away this fact as though inconsequential. "But I look at this"-he gestured back toward the now-frozen frame of Sara standing before Michael-"and I can't help but wonder if you felt you owed him something."

 _Oh God._ Sara momentarily froze. _I hope you don't feel as though you owe me anything._ She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, reopening them only to see a look of concern mingled with condescension blanketing her father's features. "Honey?" he inquired, and she managed to nod quickly, desperate to regain control.

Frank must have taken the motion for agreement, or at least compliance. "These men are probably master manipulators," he suggested more softly.

 _I'm one of the bad guys, remember?_ "No," Sara countered, shaking her head swiftly. She drew in a ragged breath, but there didn't seem to be enough air in the room. She inhaled again anyway, and it helped a bit. When she spoke again, it was with renewed confidence. "Dad, I don't need you to tell me how to relate to my patients. I know full well how the conduct of an inmate-"

"I'm not saying I think you're naïve, Sara. I'm only asking that you remain aware of the company you're forced to keep in that place." She opened her mouth to interject, but he held up one hand to halt her. "I'm only saying that unprecedented situations arise. The unforeseeable occurs. Not every circumstance can be accounted for neatly in a book of protocol."

Sara stared back into her father's face; his features were rigidly set, his cool blue eyes sure, and she nearly laughed. As it was, she permitted herself a smile. "You're right about that, Dad," she said, taking one more steadying breath before reaching, finally, for her purse. She sighed. "Are we done here?"

Frank nodded, already clicking away from the incriminating tape to tackle some other business-at-hand. Sara hesitated, digging out her car keys slowly in case he had anything else to say. When he didn't look up, she forced a wan smile. She would keep this civil. She would leave without shouts or accusations for once. Instead, she simply turned for the door, pausing to bid both Bruce and her father goodbye.

Frank looked up. "So you'll be careful?" he pressed.

She paused again briefly, hitching her purse higher on her shoulder as she pivoted back to face her dad, but really, there was only one way to answer his question. Even still, when she responded, it was with a deep sense of fatalism, of being entirely too fargone. "Yes, Dad," she told him, forcing a humorless smile. "I'm always careful."

 _Month Three_

 _Day 29_

 _10:00 am_

Michael had had an entire weekend's worth of time in the SHU to think about, contemplate, and analyze his brief moments alone with Sara within the confines of his cell. The minutes, and then the hours, remaining on his sentence in segregation had ticked by with startling speed as he had closed his eyes, reliving their tumble against the door of the cell, her body both firm and soft against his, her hair a tangle of silk, her mouth so eager…so willing…its mere memory still, even nearly a full two days later, sent a rush of pure desire to travel down his spine and a flood of heat straight to his groin. He groaned, head in his hands, but mostly, he replayed their final seconds together, his whispered declaration of love into the bell of her ear and her subsequent response.

It had only been very, very slight, just the most inconsequential straightening of her shoulders, the most minor tensing of her jaw as she had brushed past him toward the doorway. Her head had been bent, her eyes on the floor, and she hadn't glanced back, not even for an instant, as she had left him, and no matter how many times Michael replayed it in his head, he couldn't decide what had been running through her mind. Was she happy? Was she angry? Confused? Had he taken too great a liberty, crossed too definitive a line? He had no idea. If the powers that be had intended to torture him with these long hours of total isolation, with only his own thoughts for company, they had certainly achieved their goal.

Now, it was Monday morning, and as his breakfast was slid without ceremony through the slot in his door, two questions burned in his mind. Firstly, would he get out of this cell in time for his 1 pm appointment, and secondly, if he did, would he find Sara there to administer it?

As for the former, he didn't hold out much hope. No doubt Bellick would be more than happy to hold him here for as long as he could spare the cell, and so when, not ten minutes after pushing aside his breakfast tray, he heard footsteps followed closely by the metallic grind of his door opening, he scrambled to his feet, surprised. The lights flicked on and a bored-looking C.O. he didn't recognize stepped into the cell. He reached for his wrists to cuff him. "You're outta here. Let's go."

Michael remained silent as he held his hands out for the cuffs, not quite daring to press his luck with any questions, but when the guard led him toward visitation instead of his cell in A-Wing, his curiosity got the better of him. "Where are we going?"

"Your lawyer's here," the C.O. told him. "And whatever she has to say must be good, considering it got your ass out of the hole."

Michael was still blinking at the florescent lighting as he sank down onto a stool across from Veronica. She leaned forward anxiously. "Are you ok?"

He ran one hand across his face. "Yeah." He regarded her, forcing his eyes to focus despite the glare. She looked tense, her face solemn, her brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"

"It's _good_ news, Michael," she said, but the way she delivered the line made it sound as though he would require convincing.

"What is?" he pressed cautiously.

Veronica took a breath. "Listen, I had nothing to do with it, but Michael…they're transferring you."

He felt his eyes instantly widen as all the breath seemed to leave his lungs. When he spoke, his voice sounded foreign to him, a guttural gasp that grated across his already raw conscious. _"What?!"_

"Michael," Veronica insisted, "it's going to be fine. Truly." Her tone was slow and deliberate. "It's minimal security…a reduced sentence. All good news."

"What?" he only repeated. "Where? Why?"

Veronica's voice retained its calming cadence. Michael had the sense of being talked down from something; Vee was looking at him as though he were ranting and raving, leaping up or at least pacing in agitation, when in reality, he was still planted on the stool, completely shocked. Completely stunned. "East Moline Correctional Center," she told him. "Filled with white collar criminals, first time offenders. Practically a halfway house." She smiled. "It's more than I could have ever hoped to secure for you."

This admission caused a semblance of logic to slide back into his brain. He shook his head slowly. "But if you didn't arrange this, who did?"

Vee reached into her briefcase, drawing out the copy of a form. One glance told Michael it was a transfer order. "Warden Pope himself," Vee said, pointing at the signature under the recommendation for transfer. "It looks like he processed the request just after the last of your beatings by Abruzzi and Co."

Michael blinked, staring down at the bold, sloping signature on the tissue-thin paper. _Of course. "_ He's always had a soft spot for you," Veronica was saying, and Michael nodded numbly.

"East Moline…" he mumbled. "Where is that? Somewhere south, right?"

Veronica shifted her own gaze from the form back to Michael's face. "West. About 160 miles out Highway 88."

Michael felt the remaining air in his chest leave his lungs in one swift collapse, leaving him feeling hollow and depleted. "That's got to be…two and a half hours' drive?"

Veronica reached across the table, laying her hand over his. "Michael. Listen to me. I know you don't want to leave Lincoln, and I know there are other…factors…tying you to Fox River. All the same…"

Michael simply shook his head, and Veronica's argument trailed off into silence. His mouth was desperately dry, his tongue like thick cotton. He swallowed. "Can you get me out of it?" he asked.

Veronica shook her own head. Her chin tipped upward in a familiar gesture, her eyes glinting stubbornly, and suddenly, Michael realized he was going to have to fight more than just Pope if he intended to get out of this transfer. Veronica was clearly in favor of this move. "Did you even hear what I said about a reduced sentence, Michael?" she asked. "It's significant. With East Moline's work program and their emphasis on reintegration into society, you could be released on conditional parole within a year."

"Veronica…"

"One year, Michael! And you'd be out of maximum security! East Moline is like summer camp compared to Fox River." Her voice was still low in the open expanse of the visitation room, but it now carried a stern edge. "You can do Lincoln a great deal more good helping from the outside than from the inside, at this point. You know that's true."

 _He did._ She was right, but all the same, guilt and misgiving overrode any spark of relief at the prospect of leaving Fox River. Why should _he_ be the one to leave, and not Linc? And how would he survive even one year without daily contact-no matter how restricted-with Sara? He could barely make it through each weekend, and even at that, it was only the knowledge that she would be there, in his presence, within 48 hours time that kept him going. He leaned forward on the stool, suddenly sick to his stomach. "Veronica," he began, but she only shook her head again, squeezing his hand lightly, her eyes now soft. If she was trying to lighten the blow of her refusal to counter the transfer order, she was doing a poor job.

"This is an opportunity you cannot turn down," she insisted, and again, he knew she was right. Still, he kept his face turned downward, his mouth a hard line, and she sighed. When she spoke again, she had the grace to sound hesitant. "She can visit you, you know…any time."

Michael's head rose. He assessed Vee for a moment, wondering how much she suspected, then decided he was beyond playing games. He shook his head resolutely. "No, she can't," he argued miserably. "She cannot sign her name to a guest register next to mine. No way." He paused. "I won't let her."

Veronica pursed her lips. "Well, why don't you cross that bridge when you come to it," she pacified. "East Moline has a very relaxed visitation system. Lots of hours to choose from. Let her decide-"

"No," Michael repeated. He leaned forward. "Veronica, I'm not kidding. She's put enough on the line as it is." He shook his head as though to clear it, then purposefully changed the subject. "How long do I have? When do I go?"

Again, Veronica looked reluctant to share information. "Tomorrow," she finally disclosed, and Michael's heart crashed anew within the confines of his chest. Before he could respond, however, another C.O. was at his side. _As inevitably happens, their time was up._

As he was lead back away, this time toward A-Wing, his mind felt thoroughly scrambled. He knew this news should feel like a vindication, but instead, it sat as heavy as a rock in the pit of his stomach. He was growing increasingly nauseous by the minute, and once he was finally deposited back in his familiar cell, Sucre hopping down from the bunk to greet him, he pushed past him straight to the toilet to vomit.

 _*****_

 _12:55 pm_

By the time Michael had been planted in one of the folding chairs in the sick bay hallway to await his appointment time, his nerves were no better. In fact, the knowledge that he would be leaving Fox River, combined with the fact that he hadn't seen any sign of Sara in the five minutes he'd so far spent scanning the hallway and doorways to the exam rooms made them decidedly worse. On top of everything else, his final three words to her the previous Friday still echoed in his mind, tying his stomach in further knots and making a mockery of his usual confidence. The next time a C.O. passed by, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, he stopped him. "Am I down to see Dr. Tancredi today?"

He only issued an annoyed shrug. "Who else?"

Michael breathed easily for the first time in hours. _She must still be here._ And then, as though he had somehow conjured her, there she was, striding toward him with clipboard and patient file in hand, her stethoscope slung around her neck, her lab coat billowing slightly behind her as she walked briskly toward him. Her eyes caught his instantly and without hesitation, and when she smiled, he found himself nearly slipping off the chair in abject relief. As it was, he was forced to close his eyes for a moment, reopening them cautiously to ensure she hadn't been an illusion.

By the time she reached his side, gesturing to him to rise and follow her into nearby Exam 3, he had recovered enough to detect the bare relief shining in her own eyes as well. Still, she played it off well. "They let you back into civilized society, I see," she observed dryly.

"Yes," he returned, hopping up onto the exam table. "Things can get pretty barbaric in the SHU."

She turned to reach up into the supply cabinet, but not before he caught the quick flash of a grin. "As opposed to in here?"

"It's all relative, I suppose."

She turned back toward him, eyebrows raised, then settled on the stool, his prepped tray in one hand. She was still smiling slightly when he dropped his playful tone. "Everything went alright this weekend?"

She nodded, grinning at him anew. _"I'm staying,"_ she nearly blurted, only belatedly remembering to lower her voice, and Michael could have sworn she nearly blushed as she reached hastily for his hand to prick his skin. "There's something my father brought to my attention we need to discuss, but basically?" She glanced up at him almost shyly through the curtain of her hair. "You're not rid of me yet."

Joy and despair sluiced in one violent accord through his gut, and suddenly, Michael felt ill again. Still, he forced his own smile in return. "I'm glad," he managed softly. _And he was,_ however it came about, if only for her job security and the fact that at least this was one thing he hadn't inadvertently messed up for her.

Still, there was something he needed to know, _now,_ while they had the chance. He took a bracing breath, hating to change the subject, but knowing he needed to, if this was going to be said today. "Sara, about what I said, in the SHU?"

Her eyes immediately snapped up to his, her hand suddenly tense on his arm; if he had had any doubt that she would know what he was referring to, it was instantly dispelled. "I hope," he began, "that I wasn't…that I didn't-"

With a loud click of the doorknob, followed by the screech of metal wheels on linoleum, the door swung open, admitting an orderly pushing a large laundry cart. He sauntered in with a nod before crossing past Michael to the far supply cupboard, where he began to methodically stack fresh towels. Michael felt rather than heard Sara's sigh before she moved abruptly away to prepare his shot. She turned back to him as the orderly continued to work slowly at his task. Sitting on the exam table, Michael gritted his teeth, acutely aware of the ticking away of the clock. _This could take forever,_ he thought, _or certainly at least the eight minutes remaining to them._ "I only mean," he attempted again, choosing his works even more carefully this time, his voice as bland as he could make it, "that um…"

Sara shot him a warning glance, flattening her hand on his arm to silence him. Michael frowned, then looked again toward the orderly. He was now sorting the dirty towels into piles. _Damn it._ He bit back a sigh of frustration, but straightened with interest as Sara held up one finger, indicating to him to wait. She crossed the room to retrieve his medical file from the counter, and then flipped to what seemed to him must certainly be a random page, pulling a pen from her pocket.

She cleared her throat. "Would you like to see your results, Mr. Scofield?" she asked with a slight raise of her eyebrows, and despite himself, Michael felt himself smiling at her attempt at stealth.

"Uh, yes. Definitely."

She scribbled something down and then turned the file around to face him, and for the instant it took his eyes to light upon her writing, he was staring down at what appeared to be a record of his blood work taken the previous March. Just above her signature, Sara's handwriting blocked out the boxes recording hemoglobin and protein levels.

 _I love you, too._

 _Oh, Sara._ He looked at her, his mouth opening and then resolutely closing, so many, many responses toying torturously with the tip of his tongue. His hands reached out toward her lab coat just to fall helplessly back into his lap. On the other side of the room, the orderly grunted as he hefted a stack of sheets onto a high shelf. _This was agony of the most exquisite nature._

Sara's eyes remained on Michael. "Do you have any questions?" she asked softly.

He blinked at her. "Uh, no. This is…" he paused, horrified to realize he was struggling not to tear up. Elation fought again with sickening irony in his mind and in the swell of pain tightening his chest and throat. _In the sharp sting at the backs of his eyes._ He couldn't believe she was telling him this-more than he'd ever dared imagine he'd hear-now, on what he knew would be the last day he saw her. _Their last day together._ He forced his gaze from Sara to the orderly, dumping soiled rags and towels into his cart, then back again. "This is wonderful news," he managed. _And it was. It was incredible._ His gaze fell back upon the file in her hands. "May I?"

She looked at him with an expression of amused suspicion, but complied, placing the file in his hands. He wrote swiftly, and then made sure the orderly's back was still turned before handing the file back to her.

 _If I could, I'd be kissing you more thoroughly than you've ever been kissed in your life._

Watching Sara's face as she read was nearly worth every amount of agony Michael was experiencing under their current forced silence. Her eyes instantly widened, and she exhaled so swiftly she nearly choked, gasping out a breathless laugh. The orderly turned curiously, forcing her to cover her smile with a series of coughs before issuing Michael a severe stare. She was still eyeing him with a delicious combination of wicked approval and stern warning when he snatched the file back again. __

 _No matter what happens, remember that you're one of the single best things to ever happen to me._

Her smile faltered. Across the room, the orderly straightened with another grunt and began to push his cart back toward the door. Sara turned distractedly to open it for him and then waited until he had made his way back out into the hallway. To Michael, it seemed to take an interminable amount of time; the man bumped the cart into the wall twice only to back it up slowly, line up the wheels, and start anew. _Finally,_ he was gone.

Sara spoke in a rush. "Is everything alright?"

Michael looked at her. Her face was still flushed, her eyes focused on him in a way he never wanted to see waver, and in that moment, he knew he could no more deliver the news he needed to impart than fly to the moon. She was waiting on him tensely; surely her instincts were already telling her something was wrong, but despite the tug of worry at her mouth and the sight of her hands tightly gripping the file, he could still discern a thin ribbon of hope lacing her question. It flowed with an almost delicate grace through her very stance, evident in the way she leaned toward him, her posture open and welcoming, even as their scrawled declarations were pressed tightly to her chest. Her eyes rested upon his face trustingly, and he only chanced one final glance back toward the doorway before setting his hand gently upon her knee. He ran the pad of his thumb across the soft cotton of her trousers, aching to be closer. Longing to be nearer. Their time was almost up, and today, if he had anything to do with it, and he _did_ , he knew he would postpone the inevitable. He would not destroy this shining moment of happiness between them, so fragile he scarcely dared to breathe. Instead, he thought desperately, he would find a way to talk to her tomorrow. He would send her a message through Veronica, or else he would contact her as soon as he was in East Moline. He continued his caress, his fingers stroking the smooth plane of her thigh, determined that as the appointment came to an end, it would be with this feather-light touch, and not with the heavy misery born of bad news and impending separation.

"Everything is fine," he told her, and when she smiled in relief, he was fairly certain his heart was being ripped from his chest.


	10. Chapter 10

_Month Three, Day 29_

 _1:19 pm_

The second Michael stepped out of the infirmary, panic washed over him in an all-consuming rush that contrasted his elation of moments before with all the disparity of summer to winter. Of fire and ice, regret sliding through his veins in tandem with the thrill of Sara's requited love, so recently conveyed. _What had he done?_ He was leaving in the morning, and he had just let his perfect opportunity to tell her himself slip through his fingers.

He walked back to his cell block slowly, the image of her smile, lips intoxicatingly parted, graceful fingers curved around the edge of his file as she penned her affection simultaneously warming him and paining him. Somewhere near the guard station of A-Wing, he slowed his pace from a shuffle to a standstill. "I need to see Dr. Tancredi again," he told his C.O. "It's urgent. I forgot something."

The guard only issued him a curt shove in the back. "I don't think so, Con. She's got a schedule to keep. Come to think of it, so do I. Pick up the pace."

By dinnertime, Michael had requested a visit to the infirmary three times, all to no avail. At least, however, with the event of chow, he'd have the opportunity to see his brother. From the moment he entered the line, he scanned the room for Lincoln, finally spotting him at a far corner. _Thank goodness. At least he could set things straight with one of the people he loved._ He had just turned from the end of the line, his tray still nearly empty in his hands, when he collided with the solid, dark-blue uniformed form of a C.O. He skid to a halt, his eye flicking from the expansive stomach up to the chubby chin. _Bellick._

Michael inhaled sharply through his nose, but he shouldn't have been surprised. Bellick had been in his face at every possible opportunity since he got out of the SHU. Still, he picked his words as carefully as he could while maintaining a tone of thinly-veiled distain. "Could you take a step back, Boss?" he requested smoothly. "I wouldn't want to spill."

Bellick snorted, the sound leaving his nostrils in an indignant rush. "I hear you're making noise about gaining an extra visit with our doc, Scofield."

Michael forced his fingers to remain relaxed on the smooth edges of his tray. " _Our_ doc, Boss?" He cocked his head musingly to one side. "They're really cutting corners on the employee health plan around here, aren't they?"

He watched as the corner of Bellick's left eye twitched and his jaw flexed. When he responded however, his eyes found Michael's unflinchingly. "Not much of a chance she's going to see anymore cons tonight, but I could always pass on a message, if you like."

Michael fought the smirk that flirted with the edge of his mouth. _Even transferred 150 miles away, he felt quite confident he had a better chance with Sara than Brad Bellick._ He shrugged, as if to imply there was precious little Bellick could do for him in this department. As if getting back into the infirmary tonight had merely been a passing whim. "I'm sure I'll be seeing her again before you will."

"I doubt that," he drawled, his own mouth now lifting in a cool, crooked smile, "unless of course The Pope has managed to grant you a field trip to the N.A. meeting on Church Street tonight as a bonus to your upcoming upgrade at East Moline."

Michael froze. _N.A.? He's full of shit,_ he reminded himself fiercely. _He's toying with me simply because he can._ He forced his voice to remain neutral. "I wouldn't know anything about that, Boss."

Bellick grinned outright. "No? Well I'll be damned. After all your cozy chats in the infirmary-"

Michael opened his mouth to argue, but Bellick spoke right over him, his body leaning further forward, pressing his advantage. "Oh yeah, I see you, Scofield, swapping smiles like you're sipping fraps at a fucking Starbucks. But of course it just makes sense that she would skip the whole, 'Hello, my name is Sara and I'm an addict' opener. Doesn't exactly instill respect with the cons. Puts her too close their- _your_ -level, doesn't it?" He leaned in still closer, lending Michael a view of each pore upon his face. "Probably hard enough as it is, being a chick doctor in a max security." He laughed once, a spiteful, barking sound that made Michael want to take him by both shoulders and shove him to the ground. "Or maybe _hard_ isn't the right word…" he trailed off as though in speculation, then grinned again. "No…no, it is."

Michael remained rooted to the spot, anger crashing over him in violent waves until Bellick's face was nothing more than a fuzzy caricature of itself, his features oddly distorted and quite nearly undulating under the thick sheen of his fury. "Of course maybe," Bellick went on, "she just feels ashamed is all…you being an upstanding armed robber, white collar and all that, while she's closer to a crack wh-Michael hadn't even remembered deciding to surge forward, but suddenly his face was less than an inch from Bellick's puffy nose, the C.O.'s breath hot on his skin. _"Whoa, whoa, whoa!"_ Bellick roared. _"Watch that tray, Convict!_ Why don't you just go ahead and take a step back!"

Michael refused, allowing the edge of his tray to dig into Bellick's belly, knowing that in another second, he would drop it altogether, freeing his hands to ball into fists…to pound the smug grin right off of Bellick's face. Before he could act, however, he felt two hands on his shoulders, pulling him away. He stumbled blindly backward.

"Michael, _c'mon,_ man." It was Lincoln's voice in his ear, his grip firm as he tugged him away. Still, not even his urgent persuasion or even Michael's own pulse pounding angrily in his ears could drown out Bellick's words, each one more taunting-more patronizing-than the last.

From the safety of several feet, he made a show of smoothing the front of his uniform. "I don't really have a drug problem myself, of course, but the ambiance is nice. Lonely, desperate women. You know what I'm talking about." He grimaced dramatically, whistling low under his breath. "But, _whoops._ I sure hope I didn't cause her any problems. Maintaining doctor-patient respect and all that."

Michael felt Lincoln tug at his arm. "Michael. Let's go."

He looked from Lincoln to Bellick and back again. "Yeah," he nodded to his brother. "Ok." As he turned, it took every ounce of self-control within his possession to keep his dinner tray horizontal; to keep his arms at his sides and his hands occupied. He ventured one last glance at Bellick, still grinning. His stomach gave a lurch. "You have a good meeting, Boss."

The instant he reached the table, Michael sank down onto the bench, his legs rubber. He sat still for what felt like the span of an entire minute, his hands pressed tightly to his temples, a nauseating combination of horror and shock still fighting for prominence in his brain. _N.A.? Addiction?_

Lincoln sat down heavily beside him. He shook his shoulder firmly, seeking his attention. "That true, man?"

Michael forced his gaze upward briefly before resting his jaw back in the heel of his hand. "I don't know. I guess…it _could_ be. It could, but…why…how did I not _know_ this?" He still felt as though the wind had been knocked out him.

"You didn't _know?"_ Lincoln looked mystified. "But you didn't even act surprised! Did you even know East Moline was a possibility?"

Michael glanced over. Slowly, it dawned on him that they were discussing two very different segments of recent events. What was paramount in Michael's mind was in no way paramount in Lincoln's. "Oh," he said somewhat absently, and then scrambled to sound coherent. "No, I knew. Veronica told me this morning, just as I got out of the SHU. Reduced sentence. Minimum security." He hesitated, then looked sidelong, studying his brother's profile in the artificial glare of the overhead lights. "It should have been you."

Lincoln turned to look directly at him, and then shook his head incredulously. "No," he countered. " _You_ shouldn't even _be_ here, Michael!

 _"_ _I_ shouldn't? Think back, Linc! Out of the two of us, who made the deliberate decision to break the law?"

 _"_ _I_ did!" Lincoln retorted, his voice an insistent rush of emotion. "I entered that parking garage intending to take a _life!"_

"But you _didn't!"_ Michael squeezed his eyes suddenly shut, shaking his head fiercely as he argued in a desperate whisper. "In the end, you didn't. You were just a pawn in someone else's game. Not me. I _am_ the game. Everything I did, Linc, was _premeditated."_

"And you deserve a fucking medal." Lincoln gripped the back of Michael's neck, forcing him to face him, urging both their heads to bend low over the tabletop. Michael felt his grip digging into the soft skin at the inception of his spine. "Are you listening to me? You don't belong in Fox River. You don't belong in East Moline, for that matter, or anywhere else." He loosened his hold on his neck as though just registering Michael's look of discomfort. Still, he pressed further. "I'm serious, Michael. I've regretted a hell of a lot in my life, a _hell_ of a lot, but _never_ have I felt such shame as the day I first saw you inside these walls. This is on _my_ head. This is _my_ debt. If you can get the hell out of here, go."

Michael nodded. It was all he _could_ do, and yet, the sickening nausea still churned in his stomach, a deep-seated misery coloring his every thought. Lincoln sat back, releasing a long, pent-up breath, and Michael waited a moment before changing the subject. "Linc?" he prompted. "I need a favor."

His brother's eyes found his over the trays of untouched food, his Adam's apple bobbing once as he nodded. It was a strangely encouraging gesture. "If I don't get in myself…tomorrow morning…I need you to make an appointment in the infirmary. After I go. _Right_ after, if you can."

Lincoln looked at him unflinchingly, then shook his head once, his lips suddenly a tight line. "Michael…"

"It's all I'm asking, Linc. I can't go without knowing…" he trailed off. A look of guarded wariness was blanketing Lincoln's features, unnerving him. He took a bracing breath. "This is important to me, Linc. I need to get a message to her."

Lincoln slowly lowered his hands from the table to his lap. It was a deliberate motion that suggested to Michael that his brother was just barely reigning in his frustration. "Michael. You know I've never asked…" He paused, frowning, and then started over. "I have watched you continue to show up at that infirmary every day, even though we both know you no longer need to be there, and I have _never asked_. I see how you look at her-hell, even Bellick sees it!-and I have never said anything, but now? Be straight with me. I need to know what we're dealing with here."

Michael swallowed a sudden upsurge of anger. Lincoln sounded so damned condescending it made him draw his own hands into a tight clasp in front of him. "It's none of your business."

Lincoln shook his head much more vigorously. "Well, you just made it my business, so you hear me out!" His voice wavered on the brink of an easily overheard hiss, then lowered again. "Whatever you've got going, it's a piss poor idea. You got that? It's a shitty, _shitty_ plan. I can guarantee it."

Michael answered him in the only way he could. "It's not a plan of any sort," he admitted, his own voice a nearly inaudible whisper. He looked at Lincoln, silently pleading with him to make eye contact. To understand. "It just is."

Finally, Lincoln did look over. Michael heard him sigh anew, but this time, the sound, coming from deep in Lincoln's chest, suggested defeat. "I'm not passing along messages that I shouldn't be hearing in the first place, Michael."

Michael shook his head again. "I'm not asking you to," he reassured him. He wavered, trying to weigh the likelihood of Lincoln's cooperation, and then plunged ahead. "I just need you to ask her for her cell phone number."

Lincoln let out an incredulous laugh. "Shit," he said. " _Sure._ No problem. You want her address too? I bet she gives that out to inmates all the time."

Michael was suddenly way too tired for games. "I already have her address."

Beside him, Lincoln blinked. "Shit," he repeated. Michael felt him studying him intently, but now he was the one to keep his gaze stubbornly trained on his tray. "This is why you don't want to go," Lincoln said slowly. He issued a bitter laugh. "You'd rather be locked away in maximum security than go one day without your dose of-"

 _"_ _Don't finish that sentence, Lincoln."_ Michael's voice was a whisper, but it left no room for misinterpretation.

Lincoln stopped speaking abruptly, clearly surprised. "You're serious."

Suddenly, the cavernous room, nearly deafening a moment before with the sounds of cutlery on plates, trays stacking, and men shouting, seemed nearly silent. Michael could hear only the sound of his own thoughts reverberating loudly off the inside of his skull. "Yes," he said simply. "More serious than I've ever been about anything in my life. Do you understand that?" Lincoln nodded, but Michael continued as though he hadn't. "Think about Vee. Contemplate her, separated from you, day after day, and then you think about whether you'd like me sitting here, cracking jokes. Is that funny to you, Lincoln?"

Lincoln was looking at him oddly. "No," he breathed. "It's not." He stared at Michael for another second, and then whipped his head around, nearly flinching as another inmate sat down heavily directly beside him, taking up the rest of the room at the table. Michael waited, trying to read the look of sudden, awestruck awareness that was now stretched across Lincoln's features. He couldn't determine whether it worked in his favor.

Lincoln glanced swiftly from the other inmate, now digging obliviously into his food, back to Michael. "I'll get a number from your doctor," he finally said evenly, and then rose. When he spoke again, Michael could detect the faintest tremor in his voice. "Let's go."

*****

 _Day 30_

 _7:55 am_

As Sara arrived in the Fox River staff parking lot, the sun was still low enough in the eastern sky to cause her to squint as she swung into her space, groping a bit blindly for her travel mug of coffee. She was well ahead of schedule for her first appointment of the day, but even so, she made her way straight from her car to her office. She had left early the night before, and she was already mentally cataloging the amount of work that had undoubtedly stacked up in even that short of an absence, not to mention the number of messages from both Mercy and General she could expect and whatever new complaints had popped up on the cell block during the night. She quickened her step.

Forty-five minutes later, she felt marginally more organized, and ventured down the east bank of stairs toward the small staff break room off of Visitation to refill her cup before her first appointment. She met Katie on the way, taking the steps up to the infirmary as she came down. She took one look at Sara's mug and pivoted on the spot, offering a tired smile in greeting. "Good idea."

They walked together toward the break room, taking a shortcut through the visitation lounge with a wave toward the security detail. "So you never told me how this weekend went," Katie prompted, pausing to type her security code into the pad next to the set of double doors leading from Visitation to Conjugal and the break room beyond. "How was Springfield?"

"Basically uneventful," Sara answered, flashing her ID to the C.O. standing outside of the conjugal room. "Just the way I like-"

Suddenly, she froze. The double doors had opened before her, admitting a tall brunette in designer acid-washed jeans and a metallic-hued crop top. The guard in the opposite doorway looked over at her with a grin, but she crossed directly before him, Sara, and Katie without a glance, heading straight for the sign-in station and metal detectors, stopping only once she'd reached the desk to dig into her purse for her wallet.

 _Nika._ The sight of her hit Sara with the force of a ton of bricks, and even after the fact that she was standing stock still in the center of the room sank into her consciousness, it was at least another five seconds before she managed to force her legs to move.

"Sara?" All the way across the room, Katie was holding the door to the break room open for her. She suddenly looked very far away. How had she gotten there so quickly? "Coming?" she asked, and Sara had to force her eyes away from the desk before managing the remaining distance to the door. _What was Nika doing here? Michael had sworn to her…he had said there was nothing more to say between them, and she had believed him. God, she_ still _wanted to believe him._ She shook her head forcefully in an attempt to clear it. _She_ did _believe him,_ she told herself. _She did._

There was no point hiding her surprise, but she could at least try to dial it down from outright shock to mild curiosity for Katie's benefit. "I wonder what _she's_ doing here today," she posed once they were alone in the break room, but the second the words left her mouth, she knew her attempt at indifference was falling far short of the mark.

Thankfully, Katie was engrossed in locating creamer packets and barely seemed to notice. "That was _Scofield's_ wife, wasn't it?"

Sara could barely swallow, let alone alter her tone to match Katie's air of breezy speculation. "Yeah."

"Well that makes sense, then. Ah, here we go. Irish Cream?"

Sara blinked. "Uh, sure. What makes sense?"

Katie finally paused to regard Sara, her coffee mug swinging precariously from one finger. Sara's eyes were instantly drawn to the white ceramic, watching it sway back and forth twice before Katie's next words caused them to snap instantly back to her face. "Next of kin is always called the day of a transfer," she said. "You know that."

If Sara had thought the mere sight of Nika had thrown her off balance, she now knew what it meant to be thoroughly disoriented. "The day of a _transfer?"_

"Well, _yeah."_ Katie's eyes widened as she leaned forward, suddenly sparkling with the thrill of imparting breaking news. "You didn't know? Scofield's outta here." She raised her eyebrows. "Word is, Pope filled out the request himself."

"Pope?" _What?_ "When?" _Where?_

Katie dumped the contents of her creamer packet into her coffee and reached across Sara for a stir-stick. "Yesterday morning, I guess. Probably got tired of seeing his architectural consult beat up all the time." She cast Sara a knowing look. "God knows I did. That boy is way too pretty to be a punching bag for the Italian mob."

 _Yesterday morning?_ "When is he leaving? Where's he going?" _God, her stomach hurt. Was her face on fire? It felt burning hot._

Katie brought her coffee to her lips, then back down again. "I guess he's leaving right away." She took another sip, her eyes catching Sara's over the rim of her mug. "Listen, Sara. I know you have a soft spot for the guy." Sara opened her mouth to object, but Katie spoke right over her. "Before you give me your obligatory spiel about convicts and professionalism, let me just say, believe me, I understand. And why shouldn't you relate to some patients better than others? But when it comes down to it, even you have to admit it's probably for the best that he's going." She set down her mug to reach again for her purse. Sara's own mug sat unattended and forgotten on the counter, and Katie pulled it closer, tipping the carafe to fill it for her. "And anyway, he's going to East Moline," she continued conversationally. "Reduced violence, work study…hell, they've got down comforters for all I know."

 _East Moline. What did she know about East Moline?_ Sara nodded numbly, following Katie out of the break room.

"Oh, and hey. Reduced _sentence,_ too, I hear. So cheer up…you may bump into him on the El before you know it." Katie raised both eyebrows with a laugh. "Can you _imagine?"_

 _Could she?_ Sara felt hot and cold both at once, and even though she was now gripping her mug, she couldn't feel the tips of her fingers. They re-crossed the conjugal waiting area where there was no sign of Nika-was she already inside? Was he?- and pushed through the far doors back to Visitation and then the staircase. Sara let Katie lead the way, punching in her ID at each juncture. Sara doubted she remembered hers.

 _He hadn't told her. He had sat a matter of inches from her for ten solid minutes yesterday, and he had let her talk of love-_ love!- _without halting her._ He hadn't even seemed upset, or, to be fair, had she simply been too elated, too fucking giddy, to notice? His ability to completely deceive her, to play her-intentionally or not, maliciously or not-absolutely terrified her. She felt like putty in his hands; it didn't even matter whether he was present. Even here, even now, he had the ability to completely shake her to the core. Her legs felt weak, her fingers still numb to the heat radiating from her mug, and never, not even under the influence of her most destructive high, had she felt so completely out of control. So completely torn apart and at a loss.

When she and Katie re-entered the infirmary, the morning orderly was already waiting in the hallway, poised to hand her the chart of her first patient. Three more inmates followed directly on his heels, and it was past ten before she had enough time to slip into her office and close the door. She hesitated only a second before picking up the phone and dialing Henry Pope's extension.

His receptionist gave Sara the information she needed. "I have it right here," she said, and Sara waited while Becky shuffled through some papers on her desk. "Michael Scofield…yes. He's scheduled for transport at 1 pm."

 _1 pm. Of course._ Sara sat back in her chair, taking a moment to let the irony wash over her before thanking her and hanging up.

She checked the current time again on the wall-mounted clock. 10:24. _He had almost three hours._ She could call him in. She _should_ , in all actuality. She usually did perform a final check-up on departing inmates, when time allowed. It served as a chance to answer any last minute questions and to make sure charts and files were up to date for the next facility. Suddenly, her heart sank in such a quick rush it left her reeling. _His chart._

Immediately, Sara was on her feet, opening the door to call for Katie. "Has the D.O.C come by to pick up Michael's chart?" she asked paused in the doorway to Exam 2. "Yeah. About an hour ago."

Sara closed her eyes tightly shut, one hand coming to rest at the bridge of her nose. _Shit._ She had of course pulled the page with the scribbled _I love you_ from the file, but had yet to figure out a way to explain the gap in sequence, not to mention the fact that the chart still listed Michael as a diabetic. As of this time tomorrow, he would be resuming his daily dose of insulin.

Once again, her hand reached for the phone. This time however, it remained poised just above the receiver while Sara deliberated. Again, she stood up and went to the door. At the threshold of Exam 2, she caught Katie's eye again. "When is my next appointment?"

Katie paused prepping a tray. "You have a lull…I don't think you have anything scheduled until 11."

 _Over a half of an hour. Enough time to call him in. Enough time to hear him explain his transfer and Nika's presence. Also? Enough time for him to talk his way right past her defenses. Enough time to spin this whole thing in some manner that stripped her of her anger._ But, she thought, clenching her jaw tightly to keep the knot of frustration and hurt that was aggressively rising in her chest and her throat at bay, _her anger was justified._ She returned to her office almost blindly, but once there, she did not reach for the phone. Instead, when she crossed to the window, leaning out to stare at the parking lot and the stretch of road leading away from the prison, she found that her hands were shaking-no doubt a side-effect to her sudden, blinding indignation-as they gripped the windowsill. She stood there for some time, acutely aware of the minutes ticking by, making her decision for her, until the scene out her window seemed to distort and blur, and then she blinked, realizing she was crying. When her intercom buzzed and Katie's voice announced her 11 am appointment, she took a full minute to pull herself together, and even then, as she left her office, a single, self-pitying thought was echoing in her mind, threatening to send her back into tears. _It would seem that even a convict who was locked in a fucking cell could manage to leave her._

After her 11 am, the appointments just kept on coming, one after the other, in wave after wave of a typical chaos that Sara should be accustomed to, but which instead left her feeling edgy and unnerved even at the best of times. Today, of course, was even worse, as the thought of Michael preparing to leave continually pushed its way to the forefront of her mind, the image of him almost literally swimming at the periphery of her vision as she mended wounds and called in medications.

The next time she had a chance to glance at the clock, it read 12:30, and her waiting area was still full of patients. She stood in the hallway, looking from the slew of inmates stretched out in folding chairs to the clock and back again, suddenly feeling horribly trapped. Horribly behind. _What had she done?_ She had had time to see Michael, and she had thrown it away. Every reason she had for keeping her distance today was still perfectly valid-he had lied to her, he had entered the conjugal room with Nika (yes, she had checked)-but now, standing in a surreal isolation amid the bustle of her infirmary, Sara realized none of that mattered. She was in this with him all the way, and she owed him more than cowardice. She owed him the benefit of the doubt. Because if she really trusted him so little, what the hell was she doing?

She looked almost frantically down at the stack of charts in her arms, thumbing through the manila folders while rapidly trying to deduce which ones could wait. Which patients she could put off…just for a while… _just for a half of an hour_ …so she could make room in her schedule for Michael. She turned toward her phone in her office, but then Katie was calling to her, the sound of frantic voices and quickened steps echoing down the corridor toward her. An inmate from Psych was being dragged in with a shank wound, and before she could do anything more-before she could think-she was drawn into Exam 3 to extract a shard of glass from the man's kicking, flailing thigh.

Michael was kept in the Pope's office all morning-evidently the warden intended him to finish their little project before jetting off to East Moline-and it was after noon before he was led back to his cell to gather his belongings. Sucre was there, only making matters worse with his questions and his despair over Michael leaving, and by the time he had talked him down, reassuring him that he, Sucre, would be out-and in Maricruz's arms-in no time at all, it was 12:40. _Surely, Sara now knew._ She had heard-God, how? When?-that he was leaving, and his need to explain…his need to see her face, to tell her this turn of events would compute to one year of separation instead of four, that it would mean freedom and a fresh start and his chance with her much sooner than either of them had hoped was pounding through his veins with an urgency that had him nearly jumping out of his skin with impatience.

 _Why hadn't she called for him?_ He had listened for the buzz of the intercom in Pope's office all morning, to be honest, but now, he couldn't wait any longer. Out of more reasonable options, he stood at the bars of his cell and yelled until a C.O. got annoyed enough to come investigate.

"Jesus, Scofield. Shut the fuck up."

He didn't waste time mincing words. "Am I going to get my infirmary appointment today?"

"I dunno. I doubt it. You're outta here in 15 minutes."

"I need my insulin shot!" He took a breath, trying to sound sane and reasonable instead of like the desperate lunatic that lurked in his head. "Before I go. I have to get my insulin."

The C.O. shrugged. "Ok, ok. Hold up." He sauntered over to the guard station several yards down the line and picked up the phone. Michael watched him dial. "Yeah, get me Dr. Tancredi." He waited, and Michael waited, watching him pick up a pencil and spin it idly across the desktop. After a moment, he straightened. "Uh yeah, Officer Bennett here. I've got Michael Scofield, saying he needs his appointment today before transfer?"

Another pause. Michael forced a tight breath out of his nose. "Alright. Yep." The C.O. hung up, and Michael tightened his grip on the bars as he returned as slowly as he had left.

He shrugged again. "Her schedule's full today."

The air left Michael's lungs in a violent rush, and he nearly staggered backward. _Sara. Don't do this_. "But," he finally managed, "I need my insulin. I can't leave without my insulin!"

The C.O. had already dismissed him. He was several yards away, making his way back no doubt to his coffee and his gossip with the other guards, but Michael kept yelling anyway. He yelled for his appointment until the representatives of the D.O.C. came to lead him away.

Sara had heard the buzz of her intercom, but with her hands both undeniably occupied dressing the now-cleaned shank wound, Katie had crossed the room to pick up the call. Listening to the short exchange while ripping tape from a roll, she caught Katie's eye as she hung up. "Who was that?"

Katie was already rushing to the next room. "C.O. in A-Wing. Scofield wanted his shot." She must have misinterpreted Sara's despairing expression for apprehension, because she was quick to reassure. "Don't worry. I told him we were buried here."

Sara gripped the edge of the exam table, barely registering the man before her shifting uncomfortably. He moaned, but she stared only straight ahead. "Oh," she managed, nodding numbly to Katie. "Right. Ok."

She finished dressing the wound before her with shaking hands, then exited the room as quickly as she could, nearly forgetting to strip off her gloves at the door. In her office, her clock was reading 12:54. _Too late. Definitely too late._ She bit her bottom lip fiercely, determined not to break back out in tears.  
 _  
She was also determined not to see him go._ She took her lunch in place of Michael's blocked out 1 pm appointment, and while she didn't go far, she was at least a mile away, sitting in her car in the parking lot of a run-down coffee shop at the moment she knew Michael was stepping into a van and being driven from Fox River.

By the time she returned to her office for an afternoon of appointments, her head ached from crying and her stomach hurt from reliving over and over her decision to deny Michael his chance to say goodbye. Regret slid through her gut, but even so, she couldn't help but wonder, even had she seen him today, whether she would have been mentally or emotionally prepared to hear whatever he wanted to say. She wondered whether her longing for him would have colored her thoughts, whether her love for him would have rendered her far, far too weak to allow herself to objectively assess the situation. She felt almost physically tender to the touch, her defenses stripped to the bone, and the thought of him looking at her right now, of his touch on her skin, nearly made her ill…simply because she wanted it so, so badly. _She had learned-the hard way-that when she craved something that violently, it was best to avoid it._

By four pm, she was beyond ready to call it a day. She found Katie in the sick bay and told her just that, her heart sinking when Katie made an apologetic face. "You have one more," she said. She handed her a chart. "I'm sorry, but I thought with his brother leaving today and all…"

Sara flipped it open. _Lincoln Burrows._ Oh, God. "Uh, yeah." She swallowed, drawing one hand upward to toy nervously with the pendent of her necklace. "Where is he?"

"Exam 3."

She went straight there. _At this point, she just needed to get this day over with._ When she entered the room, however, it was with a deep sense of foreboding. "Lincoln," she acknowledged guardedly. She forced herself to look him in the eye.

He looked at her almost quizzically before shifting his own gaze toward the wall behind her. "Hey doc."

She didn't sit down, nor did she pull on a pair of gloves. She highly doubted Lincoln was in need of an examination. Instead, she waited, but for almost five seconds that felt like five hundred, he said nothing. "Tough day for you, I imagine," she finally ventured, each word lodging painfully in her throat before being spoken, and eventually, his eyes returned to hers.

"Yeah."

She studied his face, but if he knew how hard this day had been for her as well, he didn't reveal it. She waited again, watching as he shifted on his seat. "I, uh, nothing's wrong," he said, vaguely sweeping one hand over the length of his torso, and Sara nodded silently. She waited again. The silence in the exam room lengthened to ten seconds, and then twenty. Finally, Lincoln spoke again in a rush. "I promised I'd ask you for something."

She mentally braced herself. "What is it?"

"Uh, well, I'm reasonably sure this is going to put me directly into the SHU, but…" he took a breath, and once again locked his eyes directly on hers. When he spoke, he sounded awkwardly apologetic. "Your cell phone number?"

The request hit her like a slap. She felt her face close into a hard mask, and she turned away abruptly, reaching out to grip the countertop for momentary support. _How could he send his brother in to ask that? And oh God, how could he_ not? Standing at the counter, feeling as though her legs would give way beneath her, she recognized that it was this paradox that tortured her the most. The fact was, she couldn't decide whether she was furious or relieved by Lincoln's request. She wanted Michael to have her number, and yet, she didn't. The conflict tearing through her mind was excruciating.

Her reluctance to reveal even the slightest glimpse of her impropriety with Michael fought against the stab of sympathy his request drew effortlessly from her. _She loved him. God help her, she loved him, and he needed to contact her, and oh, why hadn't she allow him to see her this morning?_ Suddenly her dozens of carefully constructed reasons made no sense whatsoever.

"I'm sorry," Lincoln was saying. "Forget it. I'm sorry."

She turned back, shaking her head to stop him. "Um. No, just…one minute." He blinked, his eyebrows raising ever so slightly in surprise.

She grabbed her prescription pad and wrote down the number; when she tore the paper from the pad, it sounded near-deafening to her in the quiet room. She looked at Lincoln again before handing it to him. She didn't know how much he knew, but as he returned her gaze, his eyes were soft, his expression closer to sympathetic than judgmental. "I trust," she said softly, "that this will get into the right hands, and none other."

Lincoln nodded, taking the paper almost penitently from her hand and slipping it into his pocket. He rose, and she didn't stop him as he crossed the room to the door. At the threshold, he paused. "He never belonged here," he said.

"No," she agreed softly, and then he was gone.

*****

Month Four

Day 1

East Moline Correctional Center was absolutely nothing like Fox River. Everything from the guards to the visitation hours were dramatically more relaxed; Michael was assigned to a bunkhouse instead of a cell, given a work detail in the prison library instead of the manual labor of P.I., and yet, after just over 24-hours, he ached for maximum security, if only because the knowledge of Sara's anger of the day before sat so heavily on his chest he feared it would smother him. He needed her. He needed that contact…those ten precious minutes in which he could relate to her, comfort her, draw strength from her, and _know_ her. _He needed to speak to her._

He had to wait until five pm, when his evening free time allowed him the freedom of phone privileges, and then he made two in rapid succession. The first was to Veronica. He answered her questions, listened to what new information she had about his sentence, and then cut her off as gently as he could. "Did Linc give you a phone number for me, Vee?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Veronica sighed. "Yes," she returned, "but Michael? Is this a good idea?"

 _He couldn't discuss this with her._ He couldn't begin to explain any of it without incriminating-oh, the irony!-Sara as well. He sighed apologetically. "The number, please Vee?"

She hesitated a moment longer, but if she intended to say more, she thought better of it. "Do you have a pen?"

*****

 _6:20 pm_

She had kept the phone with her all damn day…waiting…anticipating…and even so, when it rang, she literally jumped. She had just stepped in the door from work, and now, she sank down onto the couch, cradling the phone in her palm, her heart pounding as she flipped it open. As she had predicted, the words 'Inmate: East Moline Correctional Center' were scrolling across her screen. She took a breath, and then with one shaky finger, she accepted the call. "Michael."

 _"_ _Sara."_ He sounded breathless. He sounded tired and wary and desperate. The sound of it tore her heart into a million shreds even while it caused her breath to tighten painfully in her lungs and tears to spring instantly to her eyes. _"Please don't hang up on me."_


	11. Chapter 11

_Month 4_

 _Day 1_

 _6:20 pm_

 _"_ _Please don't hang up on me."_

Sara blinked in surprise. She had no intention of hanging up on him, and it took her the space of several seconds to recall why he would assume such a thing. To Sara, a veritable lifetime had passed since the moment she learned of his transfer; her initial refusal to see him before he left Fox River had nearly faded from her mind, overshadowed days ago by her more pressing fear for Michael, her own loneliness, and pure, simple misery at their lack of a goodbye.

"I'm not going to hang up," she managed, and in her near-silent apartment, her voice sounded uncertain and determined all at once.

"Thank you for giving my brother the number," he said softly in way of answer, which only further accentuated the fact that he was speaking very cautiously, walking a fine line between happiness at finally connecting and a deeper, darker apprehension. His words prompted Sara's memory of Lincoln's visit to the infirmary, and once again, her regret at missing her opportunity to give the phone number directly to Michael sank to the pit of her stomach like a stone.

 _She had to set this straight._ "I tried to see you," she blurted. "Before you left-but Katie answered the phone, and then…it was too late."

She heard Michael release a pent-up breath. "I did, too." He sounded relieved, but also very far away, his voice almost tinny through the receiver. She pictured him standing at a public pay phone in some cavernous group area or else out in the cold in some concrete block, and involuntarily shuddered. "Michael, are you-"

He interrupted before she could finish her sentence. "Are you ok?" he asked swiftly, and then halted, belatedly realizing she was speaking. "I'm sorry," he added. "You go first."

"No," she deferred, with a slightly awkward attempt at a short laugh. "I was actually going to ask you the same thing." She closed her eyes. She was already sitting, but now, she had to fight the urge to lie down. Even after trying to clear the air, every word between them felt painful…or more accurately, they felt tender, as though with each syllable, she and Michael were pressing on a wound. _It shouldn't feel that way, right?_

Michael was silent on the line long enough for Sara to wonder if he thought this was going as badly as she did. When he finally spoke, he _did_ sound pained, which answered at least one of her questions, but his grief, she suspected, was not for himself. "I'm fine," he assured her softly. "And I'm so sorry. The second I left you that day, I knew I should have told you."

Sara sighed. "Yes, you should have." Saying the words aloud brought a small measure of her earlier anger back to the forefront of her mind. In a way, feeling injured felt good…it gave purpose to the strangely comprehensive ache radiating from her head to her toes. Of course, most of her resentment was merely worry displaced. "When I was kept in the dark, an incorrect medical chart went to East Moline _with_ you, Michael," she said. "There were gaps in it I hadn't fixed…tests that were inaccurate. Did you even think about that?"

"Yes," he said swiftly. "Yes, I know." He sounded miserable. "I know."Sara shook her head, momentarily forgetting that he couldn't see her. "But I don't even care about that," she continued. "How it reflects upon me doesn't matter. Unless your physician at East Moline is much more up-to-date on his paperwork than I am, he'll never bother to read through the backstory carefully enough to spot the discrepancies." She paused, steeling. "But he's giving you insulin again, isn't he?"

Michael was slow to answer. "Yes."

Even as frustration and worry coursed through her, Sara reminded herself she had been resigned to this answer. She forced herself to remain calm. "Isn't he checking your blood sugar? Because it must be alarmingly low."

"It's not."

Sara brought one hand up to her eyes. "You're taking PugnaC again."

"Just for now."

"Michael…" Her voice caught on the single word, and she floundered, unable to continue as her throat closed over a knot that felt like the size of her fist.

"It's ok," he said quietly. "I'm fine."

"No." She could barely get this word out either; she knew she was beginning to sound hysterical, but if that was what it took to impart to him the gravity of the situation, so be it. "It will destroy your liver, Michael!"

"I had no choice."

"Yes! Yes, you did! You could have told me. I could have done…something."

"I know, Sara. I know. I'm so sorry." He was apologizing for the second time in as many minutes, and suddenly, Sara was weary of hearing it. She didn't want him to be sorry. She only wanted this to be fixed. She wanted him healthy, and whole, and near her, not 150 miles away, locked behind a gate and four walls. She squeezed her eyes shut, clenching her jaw as she fought back a sob. Despite her best efforts, a faint sniffle escaped.

"I need to know that you're ok," Michael said, and _damn it,_ his own voice cracked, causing her to choke back yet another sob. For some inexplicable reason, her mind chose this moment to flash upon the sight of Nika entering the conjugal waiting room, and she shook her head again fiercely in an attempt to banish it.

 _"_ _Are_ you ok?" Michael pressed.

She bit her lip. In her mind's eye, she was now once again standing frozen in place in the center of the waiting room, her hand curled around the ceramic side of her coffee mug as Nika leaned far over the sign-in desk, one garishly-ringed hand trailing over the guest list as her finger scrolled down the names.

"Sara?"

"I burnt my hand," she told him idiotically.

There was a second of silence. Her answer was obviously not what Michael was expecting. "But are you hurt?" he ventured. "How did you-"

"It doesn't matter how." She swallowed viciously, suddenly annoyed with herself and annoyed with his question. "That's not the point."

Michael was still clearly at a loss. "It's not?"

 _This conversation was once again heading severely off-course._ She took a deep breath. "I saw Nika heading for the conjugal room the morning you left."

Another pause, this time with a quick intake of breath that sounded very much like the auditory version of dots connecting. "And you burned your hand?"

Sara listened for any trace of a smile in his tone, but if any mocking was present, he hid it well. Even so, it didn't stop her from feeling ridiculous. _Don't make me ask,_ she thought fervently.

He didn't. "She was called as my next of kin," Michael confirmed swiftly. "She probably knew I was transferring before I did."

Sara clutched the phone more tightly to her ear. "What did she want?" she asked softly.

To his credit, Michael didn't hesitate. "She wanted more than had been agreed upon. She wanted more time, I guess…time to stall." In Sara's opinion, Michael seemed to be stalling himself. She bit her lip, waiting impatiently, and when he spoke again, he sounded slightly apologetic…almost sheepish. "I've been working with Veronica, actually, to procure an annulment."

 _Oh._ She swallowed hard. "I see." She wanted to say at lot more, but her mouth felt very dry. When Michael remained quiet as well, however, seemingly hesitant to be the one to change to subject, she did it for him. She glanced over at the digital time display glowing softly over her TV. 6:35. They'd been talking nearly fifteen minutes. "How long do you have?" she asked.

"Only ten months, if I keep my record here clean."

"Oh!" She let out what amounted to an awed gasp. "I meant…I meant how long do you have to talk tonight…but… _oh_." She was grinning into the phone, absolutely unable to conceal her amazement at this news. And why would she want to? Ten months! She said it aloud, just for good measure. _"Ten months,_ Michael?"

His answering chuckle sounded both triumphant and relieved at her reaction, and she found herself laughing in return. "I had known it would be reduced, but this? This is much better than I hoped for." She was babbling now, but she hardly cared. If Michael's throaty laugh was any indication, neither did he.

"And I have as long as I keep feeding quarters into the payphone," he added. "Tonight, I mean." He paused. His intake of breath into the phone washed through Sara's consciousness like a caress. "And any night after this, if you'd like."

"Yes," she smiled. _It felt so good to feel happy. No wonder she was giddy._ "I _would_ like." She settled further into the cushions of her couch and tucked the phone more securely into the crook of her neck. "Tell me about East Moline," she requested. "Tell me how it is that you're free to talk to me at almost 7 pm in the evening."

He told her, starting with his arrival-there wasn't even an intake…he had been shown straight to his bunk in Building C-and touching upon all the myriad of ways in which East Moline differed starkly from Fox River. "Our days are virtually free to spend as we'd like," he told her in disbelief. "From the moment our bunk houses are unlocked at 7 am until Count at 10:30 pm, we make our own schedules. Phone calls may be monitored, but you can make as many as you'd like."

He told her about a work study program offered off the property, the large library with check-out privileges, and the rec room with rows of vending machines and pool tables.

"It sounds so much better," Sara told him.

Michael paused abruptly, as though she had said something deeply insightful instead of blatantly obvious. "No," he said slowly, sounding almost startled at some revelation he was just now uncovering in his mind. "It's not. Honestly, it's worse." He stopped again, but Sara remained silent, hoping to give him a moment to sort his thoughts. "East Moline is just close enough to some distant definition of 'normal' to actually feel even more constraining."

Sara frowned. "Yes, I can see that," she acknowledged softly. "Fox River is like an entirely different world."

"And East Moline more closely resembles some sort of community center just a few, albeit significant, steps from home."

Sara sighed. The pain was back, radiating from her temples downward, smothering the momentary joy incurred only moment before. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I know," he said quietly. "And I'm fine." He sighed as well, and then spoke again with greater confidence. Sara easily detected a note of false cheer in his voice. "I'm fine. Ask me something else. Anything else." His tone genuinely brightened. "Oh, they have a espresso machine here."

Sara smiled weakly. "Well, you have me beat, then," She shifted slightly against her throw pillows as though physically-and mentally-bracing herself. _As much as it buoyed her to hear him happy, she didn't want to talk about coffee._ "What have you learned about visiting hours?" she asked.

At first, Michael didn't answer. In fact, he was silent for so long Sara repeated the question. "I heard you," he finally said gently. "But the hours don't matter." She heard him breathe, a shaky sound that effectively splintered any resentment she might have harbored in the wake of his words. "I won't…" he began softly, "I won't have you here, signing your name into that log."

Sara began to argue, but he cut her off, and this time, he didn't apologize. "I _won't,"_ he repeated, and now, the edge to his voice was impossible to miss. "You're not writing _Tancredi_ next to _Scofield_ in the East Moline visitation room records." Sara could picture him perfectly, his mouth drawn in a stubborn line. "No."

"I can make my own decis-"

 _"_ _No."_

Anger flared, and this time, it felt wonderfully justified. "You make this harder," she accused miserably. In an instant, she recalled every lie he had told, every injustice she believed herself to have suffered at his hand. "You make this harder at _every single juncture."_

"I'm making it _easier_ for you!" he insisted, his voice now a hushed plea. With a pang of guilt, she was reminded that there were doubtless more than a few men milling about his phone stall, serving as an unwelcome audience to Michael's side of the conversation. "I'm making it easier," he repeated. "Tell me I don't really make life harder for you, Sara."

She exhaled deeply, but the calming tactic only brought her emotions marginally back into control. Her nerves were still a knot of frustration and resentment, but imagining him on the other end of the line, waiting upon her answer, she felt all the fight leave her body. They didn't have the luxury of time to waste on pride or misguided bitterness. "You make my life _better_ ," she answered quietly. "Not easier, but better."

Even though it wasn't precisely the assurance he was seeking, it must have been a revelation all the same. "Do I really?" he asked. He sounded unconvinced.

Sara smiled through tears she hadn't realized she had shed. "Of course you do."

He cleared his throat roughly. "I just need to get out of here."

The simplicity of his solution made Sara laugh unexpectedly. "Yes," she agreed. "That would be very useful." Suddenly, everything seemed a little less dire, a little less severe in its complexity. "But then again," she teased lightly, "who says I don't like my men immobilized behind bars? I could get used to this, you know."

"Could you?" he retorted, but all at once, the joke had lost its humor.

"No," she answered. "Never." There was another pause in their conversation, and Sara closed her eyes again. _She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so emotionally drained._

A second later, Michael changed the subject. "So Sara, listen. I want you to buy a new phone-a disposable TrakFone-alright? Something with a plan you pay for as you go. I can get the new number from Veronica."

"What? Why?"

"I don't want to keep calling you on this one. My calls are unrestricted, but that doesn't mean the numbers aren't recorded."

What was left of Sara's lightened mood vanished. "And this precaution is for the same reason that I can't visit you?"

"Yes."

At least he was honest. Still, it took all of her self-control to bite back a retort. This request with the phone was a simple measure, after all, and if it made Michael feel better, there was no reason she couldn't comply.

They discussed a few other more mundane things-how his first day had gone, how she had spent her last few evenings-and if Michael had sounded like he wanted to say more when she told him she had spent yesterday evening in a weekly meeting, she must have imagined it, because in the end, he didn't press her.

"I love you," he said instead, for the first time since his rushed confession in the depths of the SHU, and once again, the three words nearly knocked the air from Sara's lungs. She closed her eyes again, this time attempting to hold onto the sound of his voice, uttering _that_ particular statement, for as long as she could.

"I love you, too," she whispered, and as she said it, her hand tightened on the phone, her fingers literally itching for him, straining to somehow reach him. More than at any other time during their conversation, she wanted him _here._ She wanted him here _now_. She hugged her knees to her chest instead, the emptiness of her apartment becoming instantly oppressing. "I'd better go," she told him softly, and she forced herself to sound cheerful-or at least marginally ok-as he agreed unenthusiastically.

After they said goodbye, she remained on the couch for a long time. She stared at the blank TV-7:20 illuminated just above it-and it wasn't until her stomach growled audibly that she remembered that she had forgotten about dinner. She rose and walked to the kitchen, but once there, she no longer felt hungry. Instead, she opted for a long, hot shower, reveling in the feel of each steaming jet of water hitting her skin.

 _Ten months,_ she thought again, but this time, a nagging worry followed quickly on the heels of her elation. _Ten months, and_ then _what?_ Could it work, herself with a free Michael?

She turned off the spray, watching the water drip with painstaking slowness from the tips of her hair to the tiled floor. _It would have to work,_ she told herself. _She had already invested entirely too much for it not to._

*****

 _One Month Later_

Michael turned from the long line of communal shower stalls to reach for his towel. He dried himself quickly, even though, at this hour-7:30 am, the earliest inmates could be up and out of bed-he was the only one in the tiled room. Once he had secured his towel around his waist, he padded silently back down the hallway to his bunk.

He would spend the day in the East Moline library, as he nearly always did, earning 15 cents an hour stacking books and helping the other men work the microfiche machine with its reams of photocopied newsprint and locating historic cases for them in the bookcases of outdated law textbooks; everyone here seemed to be eager to research sentence reduction or early parole. What he had told Sara was true: serving time at East Moline-or, Sweet Mo, as it was affectionately called-was harder than at Fox River. At least in maximum security, there was no illusion of respect, equality, or freedom. Here, bunkhouses replaced cell blocks, each cluster of buildings set up in a welcoming configuration that reminded Michael of some small, although admittedly ugly, college campus. Someone had even put up curtains in a few of the windows. Men served their time quietly and lawyers and visitors came and went daily.

Of course, that last perk mattered little to Michael. Sara had honored his request about visiting, just as she had honored his request about the TrakFone. He called her every night, as close to 6:30 pm as he could make it, so that he was able to catch her after her workday, and the sound of her voice, sometimes playful, sometimes solemn, served as his reward for one more day of incarceration crossed off his sentence. By slow but steady degrees forged by the intimacy created by speaking on the phone, he learned more and more about her-everything from her day-to-day life to her worries to her moods-everything, that is, but her supposed addiction.

Still, Michael waited. He wanted her to tell him herself, if that is, there was anything to tell. In fact, he was starting to think that Bellick had well and truly played him when finally, on a late Tuesday evening in October, Sara brought up the subject of her own accord. It was actually during Michael's second call to her that day…she hadn't been home to answer the first, and thinking back, Michael realized this was the second Tuesday in a row that they'd experienced this particular time difficulty.

"I'm sorry I missed you," she said hastily, and even after he brushed her apology aside, she still sounded vaguely out-of-breath.

"But you're home now?"

"Yes," she confirmed, but she still didn't sound quite like herself. With a start, Michael realized the barely audible tremor to her voice sounded distinctly like nerves. He felt a swift kick of adrenaline as his entire body went on alert. "Are you alright?"

His question seemed to throw her off. "Of course," she answered. "It's just that I have this…commitment…on Tuesdays," she explained, "but they don't usually run this long." She paused, and even all the distance away, Michael could have sworn he could hear an inexplicable fear lacing her intake of breath.

"What's wrong?" he pressed.

"Nothing," she insisted more firmly, and something told Michael that if he dared one more question, she was going to stop talking altogether. He clamped his jaw shut firmly as she struggled to regain her train of thought. "It's just…I wanted to tell you…or rather, I _need_ to tell you…it's an N.A. meeting." She paused again. "That I go to."

Michael bent his head over the phone stall, closing his eyes tightly as an unexpected mixture of sorrow and relief hit him with the force of a punch. On the one hand, he took no pleasure in the fact that Bellick had been right on the money, but on the other, he was very, very grateful that she had told him. Either way, he wished he were by her side more acutely than ever, even as he struggled with how to respond. _Surely acting falsely surprised was disrespectful as well as dishonest._ "I thought that may be the case," he said slowly, "with the Tuesdays nights."

His response may not have been the right one. For one thing, it clearly took Sara completely by surprise. "You _did?"_ she asked, each word heavy with startled indignation.

"Only because I heard something," Michael assured her quickly, but the second he said it, he wondered if he had just made things better or worse. _In this case, surely honesty was the best policy._ "I was told something about this a month or so ago, but I knew you were alright, and I knew you would tell me yourself, if you wanted to."

She was silent. "Sara?"

"Who?" she finally whispered. "Who did you hear it from?"

Michael didn't see any point in protecting the so-far-removed-from-innocent. "Bellick," he told her steadily, "right before I left. I suspect…" he hesitated, but Sara didn't interrupt. "I suspect he knew it would unnerve me."

Her voice was still little more than a whisper. "And did it?"

Michael smiled sadly. "Not in the way he had hoped. It didn't change my opinion of you, nor did it frighten me, so I imagine he was disappointed. But yes, it unnerved me." He let out a shaky breath. "Of course it did. It does still."

Sara sighed, but it wasn't a weary sound, or even an angry one. Rather, it struck Michael as pensive. "I don't want you to be unnerved," she said. She seemed to gather herself, recovering quickly from the shock of Michael's foreknowledge. "What do you need to know?"

In the end, she told him everything, starting from the very first stab of acute panic she had experienced in med school, suffering from her first crisis of confidence, all the way to now, still attending at least one N.A. meeting per week. _Still needing to._ He asked questions, and she answered one after the other, and by the time they said goodbye, it proved to be their longest phone call yet.

Eventually, the lights in the rec room had blinked once-off and then back on-serving as a warning that only 15 minutes remained until Michael had to be in his bunk for Count, and even then, he took five more, only ending the call when he was relatively certain talking for even a moment longer would end in a disciplinary write-up that he could ill-afford.

When he did finally slip into bed-still dressed, there hadn't been time-he felt very much at ease, much, much more than he could have imagined possible. He had told Sara the truth when he said he knew she was ok, but what he had omitted was his very real doubt that _he_ would be ok, despite the fact that she had been successfully battling this particular challenge in her life long before he knew her. Now though, after hearing her confident explanations and often brutal honesty, it was finally clear to him that her addiction was a part of her, a part she was continually battling, conquering, and making her own. In a stunning moment of irony, it occurred to Michael that it was not unlike the escape plans that at this very moment inked their way across his own skin…and always would. They both may be marked for life, but Sara's past would not prove to be their undoing, just as his would not. They would survive these coming months, and then they would start something new. They would start something that warranted far more significance-far more worth-than could be inked upon his skin in a dozen lifetimes.

*****

 _Month 6_

 _Day 10_

Sara had gone through three billing cycles on her TrakFone by the time the Christmas holiday season came around. And yes, she was keeping count. Each time she paid the bill and slid the envelope in the mailbox outside her apartment, she felt a small thrill of accomplishment; she was now measuring time in so many different ways, it was alarming.

Christmas, in Sara's opinion, had always been an anticlimactic affair. She had grown up celebrating the holidays with big, lavish events…being the daughter of an ambitious public servant had meant dressing up for a steady stream of catered parties from Thanksgiving through New Year's, and while she had wasted no opportunity to complain as she was sent dress shopping and kept home to attend functions instead of going out to celebrate with people her own age, secretly, she loved all the pomp and flair. With every cocktail party and every Yule charity event, she had harbored some ridiculous notion that _this_ would be the moment the holidays came together. That this particular event, with its elaborate decor and open bar and perfectly placed evergreen sprigs would be the one to finally epitomize the frustratingly vague sense of _Christmas_ Sara was seeking.

It never happened that way, of course. Her mother was often drunk before ten, her father tense and surly, and during the span of his tenure as governor in which she'd lived under the same roof, Sara could not recall one holiday season in which she did anything truly charitable…in which she did anything but nurse her own needs and resentments.

In the years following, she had tried to remedy that fact with a complete 180 degree turn. Throughout most of her twenties, she had refused to attend even a single one of her father's functions. Her solution was instead to immerse herself in an entirely different atmosphere. For several years, that meant volunteering throughout the season at a women's shelter in the Englewood district. A few Christmases after that, she was in Calcutta for the holidays, and then for several yeas following _that_ , she hadn't even called her father on Christmas, purposely too stoned to care.

Now, she stood in the lobby of her apartment building, holding her latest formal invite to a holiday shindig. It was a charity dinner and auction put on in her father's honor by the Illinois State Legislature Commission, her name engraved to the outside of the envelope in red foil, and she would attend, because she had no reason not to. She was well beyond using a lack of cooperation as a means for attention.

However, she was also beyond clinging to holiday-themed idealism. Looking back over her personal history now, she could see clearly that time after time, she had chosen the easy road. She had been afraid to take chances…standing mutely by her parents' side, immersing herself in other people's misery, and burying her feelings in morphine, all in some misguided attempt to protect some sort of fragile holiday ambiance. But it had been ruined anyway…because it hadn't existed in the first place.

She looked back down at the invitation in her hand, then dug into her purse for her phone…her _real_ phone. _She was done acting cowardly for the sake of peacemaking. She was finished maintaining the status quo._

She made two calls in quick secession. The first was to the social secretary of the Legislature Commission to confirm her attendance at the dinner. The second was to Veronica Donovan.

She was surprised to hear from her, of course, but she hid it well. Still, Sara got straight to the point. "I needed to know…I need to go through you, don't I, to get on the visitation list at East Moline?"

This time, Veronica's surprise was more pronounced, if still tactful. "Um, yes. Only the inmate's attorney can add or omit from the list."

Sara took a deep breath. "I was hoping you could add me. If it's not too much trouble, of course."

Veronica's tone softened. As always, it possessed a very soothing quality; it struck Sara not for the first time that she complemented Lincoln's rougher exterior personality very well. "Don't be silly," she intoned. "It just takes a phone call, Sara."

"Thank you." She paused, suddenly feeling awkward. "I hope your holidays are going well?"

Veronica responded with a slightly frustrated sigh. "It's not exactly my favorite time of year, but I get to visit them both, at least." She adapted a note of forced cheer to her voice. "And now you will, too. I'm glad."

"Will he know, Veronica? That I'm on the list?"

She hesitated, clearly choosing her words carefully. Sara hoped she wasn't rethinking her earlier friendliness in the wake of her obvious stealth. If so, she kept her opinions to herself, only answering what Sara had asked. "He has access to it, yes, but I don't see why he'd bother to look at it."

"Ok. Thanks."

"Sara?" Veronica sounded weary, but not unkind. "He's not the best with surprises."

Sara sighed, dropping the holiday invitation lethargically into her bag as she headed for the stairs to her apartment. "He won't let me come," she said bluntly, "because he thinks it will come to hurt me." She reached for her house key. "But he's wrong."

To her relief, Veronica laughed lightly. "Well, it certainly wouldn't hurt _him_ to hear that, anyway." she said. "It's high time he learned he's not the only one with the bright ideas."

Sara smiled. "Thank you, Veronica."

Veronica brushed her gratitude aside. "I'll let you know when you've been approved."

Sara was through the door of her apartment, but just before she hung up, Veronica spoke again in a rush. "And Sara?" she added. "Have a good Christmas."

*****

 _Month 6_

 _Day 18_

The very evening Veronica called her back to say she was approved for visitation, Sara called in a personal day to work and set her alarm for 6 am the following morning. She didn't admit as much even to herself, but somewhere not so deep down, she knew she needed to reserve a more than decent amount of time determining what to wear to East Moline. In her defense, there was a long list of rules governing what was acceptable attire for visitors, but after consulting it, she knew that was hardly the problem; any combination of her work clothes would suffice. All the same, she ended up trying on five different tops and three pairs of pants, not to mention two pairs of shoes, before giving up in frustration. _When had she turned into such a girl? Maybe,_ she decided, _the moment she realized Michael hadn't laid eyes on her in almost three months._

The drive to East Moline took two hours and 15 minutes down a straight ribbon of interstate. Even though Sara was there right at ten when visiting hours commenced, she was startled by the long line already formed outside the sign-in area at the main Control Desk. It snaked around the outside of the brick visitation building, and as she took her place at the end of it, she couldn't help but wonder if this was normal, or if the increased traffic was due to the impending holiday. Either way, she had a long time to wait…only as many visitors as there were tables were admitted, rotating out only as each party's two hour limit was reached. _She definitely should have gotten here at eight._

She buttoned her knee-length wool coat more securely at her neck, adjusting her scarf and shuffling her feet restlessly against the icy crust of old snow lining the pavement as she waited. She watched the people around her…mostly younger women, some holding babies or toddlers' hands as they squirmed and whined with impatience and cold, and older women, doubtless visiting their sons or grandsons. The language as people passed the time chatting was generally crude, and often, one or another in line would step to the side long enough to get in one last cigarette before entering the facility. Sara had worked inside a much more intimidating prison for years, and goodness knew she had spent her share of time with people who frequented Chicago area lock-ups, but standing here in the December cold today, she had never felt so out-of-place.

By the time she stepped up to the Control Desk just inside the visitation building, she was a bundle of nerves, her stomach twisting painfully with apprehension. She should probably feel humiliated to be here, sliding her I.D. across the counter, waiting while the officer manning the station glanced from her driver's license to her face and back down again with an added attention to detail that she doubted every visitor passing through the doors received, but she didn't. Perhaps humiliation was simply an emotion she didn't have room for amongst the terror that now consumed her. _The moment she signed this register, she was making her relationship with Michael public. The moment she signed it, she was effectively triggering a ticking time bomb to the moment her father was made aware of her visit here._

She signed anyway, and in the end, the action was strangely anticlimactic. At the instruction of another guard, she stepped forward, staring straight ahead at the blank wall as she was searched. Once admitted, she stood to one side of the large room, watching inmates stream through the far doors from their respective buildings to reunite with their loved ones. _Maybe she should have told him she was coming,_ she thought a bit desperately. Now, she was going to have to wait for him to be called. She was going to have to stand here, waiting while their time together clicked by and she had nothing to ponder except exactly what his reaction to her presence would be.

 _She waited._ She watched men coming and going, embracing wives and girlfriends and mothers. She watched them hug until they were told to separate, and then sit down across from each other, smiling, hands intertwined, children on laps. She waited five minutes, and then ten, and then, with a jolt she really should have been expecting, he was _there,_ walking through the far door uncuffed and wearing a uniform of light brown. In contrast, his eyes were a cobalt blue as they locked on her face, his face draining of all color as he stared at her in abject shock from across the length of the room.


	12. Chapter 12

_Month 6_

 _Day 19_

 _11:45 am_

Michael stepped through the doorway only to glance across the room and freeze.

 _No._ No, no, no, no. _And yet, yes. God, yes._ He had never felt so conflicted. Later, he would recall that the oxygen seemed to disappear from the room; he had literally cast his head back as if suddenly reeling from some invisible blow. And yet it _was_ visible. _She_ was visible, right there in the flesh, watching him with a look of apprehensive longing on her face that would rip his heart in two if he let it.

And he _did_ let it, because sometime between exiting his bunkhouse and stepping into this room, he had been stripped of all his defenses. He felt twisted and turned around, plunged underwater and churned by some unseen surf; it was as though he were fighting a terrible current, rapidly losing ground as he was pulled toward a destination-a danger-he simultaneously yearned for. He took a step toward her, and then another- _how could he not?-_ all the while nearly struggling for breath. Twice he paused en route toward her, suddenly lacking the confidence that he could navigate a path through the visitation tables. When he finally reached her, he could do nothing but gape.

He felt the presence of the guard trailing behind him as acutely as if his eyes were burrowing into his skin. As for himself, he was nearly crying. "What are you _doing?"_ he gasped, the final word lilting upward in a plea that bore no resemblance to his usual speaking voice. "You shouldn't have come."

She looked terrified, and miserable, and hurt, and the sight of her continued to send duel shock waves of despair and elation to course through his body. _Maybe that was the current he felt,_ he thought wildly. Maybe it was electric…it was definitely chemical…pulling him…

 _"Michael-"_

"Why did you come?" He shook his head fervently. The action was painful, sending a stab of pain outward to his temples. "You shouldn't have-"

 _"Michael."_

She sounded unnatural as well, nothing like she had on the phone all these months. Her tone was low…hushed but needy; even her eyes were entreating him, scanning his face anxiously. Finally, her voice broke, cascading over him like the swell of a wave. _"Will you please just hug me?"_

Just like that, he was reeling anew. She was right…what was he _thinking?_ He reached out for her, pulling her into his body with almost violent force. He heard her make a single muffled sound, a cross between a moan and a sob, as she sank into his embrace. "What are you doing here?" he repeated into her neck and then her ear and then her hair. _"Sara, what are you doing?"_

She was crying softly, her face buried into the crook between his neck and shoulder, her hands tight around his back. He pulled her tighter, until she fit flush against him, and then brought his own hands up to cradle the back of her head before sliding his fingers around the angle of her jaw, prompting her to look up…to look at him. He held her face and shook his head again mutely. He knew his voice would be too harsh with emotion to chance speech.

"It's done," she said raggedly. "I'm signed in. It doesn't matter now."

He opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it, dropping his hands to her hips and tugging her closer. He just wanted to feel her body against his again, just wanted to touch her and smell her, but within an instant they were stopped, the guard stepping up and then between them, his beefy hand on Michael's shoulder.

"That's enough," he ordered mildly. "Take your seats." He gestured to their assigned table, then remained standing over them. "Hands above the table-top at all times," he informed them both in a somewhat bored drone, and then took a breath as though gearing up to read them their rights. In hindsight, Michael mused that he basically was. "You must remain seated, in an upright position, diagonally from each other for the entirety of your visit. Feet on the floor. No passing of personal possessions from either party. Hands only on the outside of clothing."

He strode off to stand against the wall as Sara blinked. "Did you catch all that?" She looked faintly panicked. "I wasn't listening at the beginning."

Despite himself, Michael smiled. He reached across the scratched linoleum table and tangled his fingers with hers. "Hands above the table-top," he repeated softly, applying at least twice the emotion the officer had given to the sentence. "Makes me miss the infirmary and that very convenient privacy screen of yours."

He watched her face as she looked down at their hands, her returning smile not quite reaching her eyes. They flicked upward to meet his. "Me, too."

He instantly sobered, squeezing her palm lightly before running the pad of his thumb up and down along the smooth skin at the inside of her wrist. "Sara…"

"Don't, Michael. It's done." She pulled one hand free to wipe her eye. He followed the path of her finger along her lower lid and then down across her cheek. She lowered her hand and studied her fingertip with its slight smear of eyeliner, then looked back at him as though daring him to object to her words _._

 _How could he?_ "I'm so glad to see you," he told her instead. He meant it. _God,_ did he mean it. The smile came back to her lips, albeit tentatively. She appeared to be trying to fight it, or at least conserve it. He let his gaze sweep from her face downward, noting dark green silk perfectly conforming to her figure, the V-neck of her shirt accentuating the creamy skin of her neck and collarbone. "Have I told you you look amazing?" he asked.

Now she laughed abruptly, bringing a hand back up to her face. "I'm a mess."

His eyes locked on hers. "Then you're a beautiful mess."

Her mouth fell open slightly only to close, her eyes darkening a shade in the glow of the artificial lights. _"Oh, Michael,"_ she whispered self-deprecatingly with a half-hearted wave of one hand. Still, her quick blush didn't escape his notice.

He took a breath, recapturing her hand. "Just tell me this," he said. "Do you think they recognized you, at the gate?"

She dipped her head slightly as though considering, then straightened, looking him squarely in the eye. "Yes. I think so."

He closed his own eyes. _"Damn."_

"If you're thinking about my father," she disputed, "don't. I've thought about it enough for both of us, Michael, and either way, he's going to find out eventually, right?"

"Right, but-"

"Because there will be something _to_ find out, won't there?" Her voice had lost its argumentative edge. In fact, she delivered this last line with an almost speculative fear.

It stopped Michael mid-sentence. "What do you mean?"

"It just means I'm trying to think beyond Fox River and East Moline." She swallowed, suddenly seeming uncomfortable with the direction in which she'd steered the conversation. She stared down at the table-top for an moment, and then back up into his face. "I want this to work. Continually concealing our relationship is only going to eventually convince me that what we have really _does_ warrant concealment. That it warrants shame. And it _doesn't."_ She looked back down at their hands. "And I have to get out of that mindset, _now."_

She freed one hand, bringing it upward to brace her chin in her palm. She raised her eyebrows slightly, offering a somewhat sad smile. "Or were you planning on keeping this a secret forever?"

 _Forever? Was it wrong that he was inwardly thrilling at her choice of words?_ _"_ No," he managed. "Of course not."

What he had to ask himself was, _why_ was it important to him that this remain a secret? Was it solely to protect Sara, or somewhere along the line, did his own pride come into play? While Sara was sitting across from him grappling with the shame inherent in concealment, he was wrestling with the very large part of his brain that was insisting that he absolutely did not deserve her. Not now. Not considering what he'd become.

"Do you ever wish," he asked her softly, "we had met in different circumstances…in college, or even…" he caught her eye…"in a bar somewhere?"

She didn't even pause to consider it. "No, I don't wish that."

"You don't wish we had met when I was free and successful and on a fast track that your father would have loved?" he pressed.

She shook her head, then surprised him with the coy hint of a genuine smile. "No." Under the table, he felt her foot graze his leg. "If we had, I have a sinking suspicion I wouldn't have been interested."

He couldn't decide whether her observation was a negative reflection upon _her_ or _him._ He raised his eyebrows, trying to summon a retort despite the pleasurable feel of the arch of her sole at the cuff of his pants. She must have kicked off her shoe at some point. "Do I really strike you as that boring?" he asked.

Her foot climbed higher. He felt her toe rub across his the outside of his pant-leg, sweeping in lazy arcs along his calf. "Not boring," she corrected. _"Good._ A rule-follower at heart."

"A rule-follower?! Who's the incarcerated one?" he demanded incredulously.

She shrugged, a smirk curving her mouth. "Who's the one with both feet on the floor?"

Michael opened his mouth only to shut it in defeat. He laughed instead, then looked directly over at her. "Don't stop," he whispered.

"I have no intention of it."

She was true to her word for some time, not ceasing her efforts until the nearest guard had glanced in their direction more than once. While she concentrated momentarily on slipping her shoe back on under the table, Michael threaded his fingers back through hers. Maintaining a point of physical contact-any physical contact-for so long a time period was a luxury in itself.

"So how's Lincoln?" he asked her. He toyed with the antiqued ring on her index finger, enjoying the feel of the band sliding along her skin.

Sara nodded slowly. "I don't see him often, but he seems to be doing well." She frowned, drawing Michael's attention from her hand to her face.

"What is it?"

She shook her head as though to dismiss the worry that had clouded her features. "No, it's just something my father said once…months ago, not long after his exoneration." She paused, appearing uncertain whether her concerns were worth remarking upon. Clearly she didn't want to make much of it.

"Go on."

"It goes back to the riots," she said slowly. She looked up at him. "Has Lincoln ever told you what happened to him while we were…well, while you were with me?"

An instant measure of alarm edged into Michael's consciousness. She looked serious. "No."

"There were surveillance tapes taken," she explained. "My dad played them for me. Michael, another inmate tried to take your brother out. In the C.O. and service catwalks above A-Wing."

Michael nodded. "I'm not surprised. Everything-everyone-went insane that day."

She looked down, biting her lip. "No, that's not what I mean. On the video, this looked very deliberate, Michael. This man-his name was John Turk-may have been using the chaos of the riots to his advantage, but he was intentionally seeking out your brother. I'm fairly sure he had been hired as a hit man." Her voice dropped and she regarded Michael almost cautiously. "I think he meant to kill him."

Michael stared at her. What she was saying didn't compute. "Why would he be a target?"

Sara leaned forward. "Michael, he was already a target. We already know Caroline Reynolds wanted him dead." She straightened. "After reviewing the riot tapes, it was my father's worry that in the wake of his exoneration, Lincoln would find himself a target once again."

Michael watched her closely. "And why exactly was that a concern of your father's?"

Sara sighed. "To be honest, I think _I_ was more a concern of my father's. I was _-am-_ too close to the situation for his comfort."

"Well, learning of this visit will certainly reassure him."

"Michael-"

He held up a hand. "Sorry." He paused, thinking. "But you say everything's been quiet with Lincoln?"

Sara nodded. "Why? What are you thinking?"

He rubbed the back of her hand idly. "I'm sure it's unrelated," he began, "but I'm reminded of something odd Nika told me, the day I left Fox River." He felt her hand stiffen slightly, and he determinedly continued to stroke it. "She said she had overheard Bellick bragging about something in her club."

"Her club?"

"She's a dancer," Michael explained. "You know…exotic dancer. And I guess Brad frequents the place as a regular patron."

Sara's eyes widened just slightly. Had Michael not been looking directly at her, he would have missed it. "Of course she is," she intoned dryly. "And of course he does."

He let the comment pass. "Apparently, he was telling a buddy about how Henry Pope had called him into his office and made him second-in-command."

This time, Sara showed outright surprise. "Second-in-command! Of Fox River?"

Michael nodded. "He's already a Captain."

"But Michael, if that were true, he's be telling _everyone…_ not just some nobody down at some dive bar." She paused. "Sorry." He shook his head at her impatiently. _Did she really think he was insulted on Nika's behalf?_ _"I_ didn't know about this," she continued, "and trust me, he'd tell me."

"Well that's why it concerns me," Michael agreed. "It's odd, right?"

Sara nodded, then shrugged. "Maybe he was just full of it. That sounds much more likely."

Michael had to agree. Still, something about the situation nagged at him. "But could you have Lincoln moved to Ad Seg?" he asked.

She smiled a bit ruefully. "I could try."

Even while imagining the protest his brother would likely mount at the suggestion, the idea of Sara pushing for it made Michael feel marginally better. All the same, even after they had dropped the subject in favor of Sara's Christmas plans and Michael's concern for LJ this year, with both himself and his father in prison for the holiday, Bellick's supposed new status continued to bother him. In fact, now that he had recalled Nika's story, it worried at the back of his mind the rest of the visit, and by the time the guard had wandered back over to tell them their time was up, he had resolved to spend the rest of the afternoon looking into it. Surely if Bellick had been formally promoted at a state-run facility, it was information he could find publicly through the internet. At any rate, he was almost grateful for the distraction; it made his goodbye with Sara fractionally easier to take.

They stood by their table, the guard hovering just behind them, ready to escort Michael back to his building. "Make it brief," he told them, and Michael heard Sara's abrupt exhale before his arms encircled her. She was shaking slightly, but not crying, and he felt her mouth press to his shoulder and then his neck. He cupped her face, kissing her temple, and _oh, he wanted more…_ he wanted so much more of her, but already she was pulling back at the prompting of the guard. "I love you," he managed. She was only able to nod sharply.

"I hate this," she breathed.

His thumb grazed her cheek. "I know." He watched her draw a steadying breath. "Promise me you'll tell me as soon as this thing blows up with your father," he requested. "We'll talk about it."

"Ok." She attempted a smile. "Promise."

"Ok," he whispered, and then her hand was slipping from his and she had been turned and steered back toward the Control Desk. He was led in the opposite direction; he looked back once, but she was already gone, replaced by the next visitor awaiting the next inmate. A moment later, he was standing with his hands on the back of his head as two officers frisked him for contraband, and she was likely in her car, turning back toward the interstate and home.

 _*****_

 _Month 6_

 _Day 20_

"So, you don't _seem_ sick."

Sara swiveled in her office chair to regard Katie. _It wasn't even 8 am, and the interrogation had already begun._ "I'm not, actually." She swung back around to refocus her attention on the files spread before her. "I took a personal."

"Do anything fun?" She leaned against the doorjamb, balancing her coffee in one hand. "A little Christmas shopping?"

Sara looked back up. _She really wasn't up for this today._ Still, she forced a smile. "Crowded malls filled with gifts I can't afford on this salary? What's fun about that?"

Katie grinned back, launching into a story about an overpriced MP3 player her niece was begging for that couldn't be found anywhere within 100 square miles-she'd checked-and Sara inwardly relaxed in relief at the change of subject.

"Well, maybe Santa will have step up on that one, hmm?"

Katie laughed. _"Pfft._ Wouldn't _that_ be nice? Oh but hey, speaking of overcrowding and chaos, you missed quite the circus here yesterday."

Sara set her paperwork aside to study Katie with concern. "Oh yeah?"

"Another race issue out in the yard, I guess. This time it's the Aryan Brotherhood that seems to be begging for a fight."

Sara sighed. "Wonderful," she intoned dryly. It wasn't exactly news, but every time a situation arose in the yard or on the block, the C.O.s predicted they were all that much closer to another race riot. In the past few weeks, the Aryan gang in particular seemed to be pushing every button they could find.

The thought of riots brought her conversation with Michael to the forefront of her mind. "By the way, Katie," she said, "I need to call Lincoln Burrows in today."

Katie swallowed the last of her coffee and then nodded as she left the room. "You got it."

An hour later, he was sitting across from her in Exam 2, looking uncomfortable as he shifted on the metal folding chair she'd offered him. He glanced her way, his eyes sparking with a curiosity masking their usual warmth.

"How are you, Doc?"

Sara leaned back against the counter opposite him, her arms folded in front of her. "I'm fine," she answered slowly. "How are you?"

He shrugged. "Can't complain, I guess."

She eyed him steadily. "You could, you know. To me. If you needed to."

He looked vaguely surprised. "Yeah, I know." He shifted again on the chair, then made a move to get up. "Is that all-"

"Do you ever feel threatened here, Lincoln? Have any enemies you're concerned about?"

He sank back down into his seat, his eyes on her more cautiously. "No. Why?"

She took a breath. "I know about John Turk."

Lincoln's face flattened of all emotion. He shrugged again as though in annoyance. "The guy who died in the riots?"

"I know _how_ he died, Lincoln. I know what he was trying to do, and so do you."

Lincoln rose. "How-"

"Sit." Sara held out one hand. "Please. How I know doesn't matter right now. Right now, I'm just concerned for your safety. There's reason to believe Turk won't be the last inmate to be offered a deal he can't refuse." Lincoln shook his head in dismissal, but Sara didn't give him time to respond. "Your exoneration angered some very powerful people, Lincoln." She drew herself to her full height. "I want to put you in Ad Seg."

He let out a huff of breath. "No way. Hell no."

"Lincoln-"

"My brother ask you to do this?" He glared at her aggressively. "This wouldn't be some sort of special favor, would it?"

Sara felt a flush of anger heat her skin. She didn't like Michael mentioned between them. _Not at all._ "And why would you be owed a special favor?"

He scoffed. "Sara. Please."

Her anger caught and flared. She shot him a furious look. "You mean Dr. Tancredi."

The correction came out much more sharply than she had planned, and Lincoln physically flinched, sitting back in his seat instantly. "Right," he said quickly. "Sorry." Sara only nodded. Her heart was still pounding, an unexpected defensiveness still singing along her veins. "Still," Lincoln added at length, "I don't need Ad Seg."

"You can't fight off everyone like you did Turk."

Lincoln's face regained its stony expression. "Maybe not," he answered flatly. "Maybe so."

His apathy was enough to refuel her anger. "You know, Lincoln," she told him, matching his cynicism word for word, "more than one person has gone above and beyond the call of duty to save your-" She swallowed hard. "To save you. Myself included. It would seem the least you could do to stay alive."

Lincoln's eyes flashed, his indifference gone in an instant. "I don't recall asking for any of that, from any of you," he shot back. __

 _Lovely._ "Well then if not for us, if not for your brother, how about doing it for your son?"

Lincoln stilled, then brought one hand up to his face, rubbing it over the dome of his head as though it suddenly ached. "I imagine he's anxious to see you out of here someday, Lincoln," she pressed, "in one piece."

He glared at her again, but for some time, he had no reply. _"Shit,"_ he breathed at length. He shook his head as though engaging in some sort of silent deliberation with himself, and then pressed both palms to the sides of the chair and hauled himself up in one abrupt motion. Sara didn't try to stop him as he walked to the door.

When he reached it, he paused. "Fine," he told her tightly. "Set it up."

 _Day 22_

 _11:55 am_

Sara was trying very hard not to feel impatient. She knew paperwork moved slowly through the bureaucracy of Fox River, but this was ridiculous. She had sent Lincoln's Ad Seg recommendation to Henry Pope two days ago, but as of now, it still hadn't been approved. She couldn't help but find it strange; her recommendations always went through unchallenged, whether to Psych, Ad Seg, or anywhere else, with inmates switching accommodations within 12 hours or less. By the time her lunch hour rolled around, she mentioned as much to Katie.

But the nurse had paused in her reach for her car keys on the counter by her purse. "That rec was blocked," she said in surprise. "Didn't I show you the paperwork on that?"

Sara had stopped in her tracks as well. "Blocked?" She regarded Katie in surprise. "No, I didn't see that. When was that? Why?"

"My bad," Katie apologized with an absentminded shake of her head. She reached across the desk toward the fax machine, shuffling through several papers before finding the one she was looking for. "It was sent here yesterday. I guess with the flu shot rush, I forgot all about it." She handed Sara the fax. "Pope denied the transfer. Doesn't say why."

Sara stared down at her own Ad Seg recommendation form returned to her. _Request denied._ She looked back over at Katie. "Well that's a first," she said slowly. "I can't believe he didn't call me to at least talk about it."

"Oh, well, he's been so distracted."

"He has? Why?"

Katie shrugged. "Becky says he's been in a horrible mood. Stressed to the limit. Waiting on some phone call that he won't let her field, which just means he's been answering all his own calls and causing total mayhem." Katie chuckled. "I wouldn't have that woman's job for anything."

Sara rolled the edge of the tissue-thin fax between her fingers, thinking. "I guess I'll go down and talk with him."

Katie raised both eyebrows. "Better hurry. He was planning to leave this afternoon for the Midwest Prison Administrators Conference…if he could be coaxed away from his phone, I suppose."

Sara stopped at the door. _Everything was adding up less and less._ "He hates that conference. He must have told me a dozens times what a waste of funds it is to send him. He's boycotted it for years."

Katie only shrugged in confusion, but Sara was already on the office phone, dialing Pope's extension. Becky answered on the first ring. As Sara suspected, she had bad news.

"You missed him by just 10 minutes," she said. "You can try to catch him on his cell," she added, but Sara thought she sounded leery. "I should warn you he's forwarded some call from Akron to it, and said he didn't want to be disturbed."

"Oh, no," she assured her quickly. "No need." She thanked her and hung up, but even after she and Katie had parted for lunch, the facts continually ran a circuit through her brain. _He placed Bellick in charge. He blocked Lincoln's transfer. He's anxious for a mysterious phone call, and now he's disappearing for three days. None of it was in character. None of it made sense._

 _*****_

 _5:30 pm_

Michael had spent most of the past two days online in the East Moline library. While inmate access to the internet was heavily filtered, all educational, government, and newscast sites were made available, and he had hoped that would enough to find what he was looking for. So far, however, he'd been unsuccessful in uncovering any information pertinent to Brad Bellick's supposed promotion.

He was just about to give up for the day and grab some dinner before the mess hall closed and it was time to call Sara when the headline of a small article from the Bloomington Pantograph, a small paper serving the suburbs of Springfield, caught his eye. It appeared about three pages down the list of Google results for Henry Pope.

 _School Board Reverses Decision to Expel Teen from Local High School._ Michael clicked on the link. How was this connected to Henry Pope? A moment later, he had his answer. The article covered the story of troubled youth Will Clayton, recently transferred from a school in Toledo, Ohio. Dated in May of 1997, Clayton had faced expulsion from the county school district for attempting to traffic marijuana in the halls of his high school. According to the article, Henry Pope himself had used his clout as a upwardly-rising professional in the state correctional enforcement field to petition the school board, although his reasons were unclear and he couldn't be contacted for a statement. Evidently, the reporter at the Pantograph hadn't done his research, but Michael certainly had. He was staring down at a photograph of Pope's son.

And even more interesting was the identity of the young school board member who proved instrumental in reversing the hopeless verdict _-politically ambitious newcomer Caroline Reynolds._

Michael nearly knocked his chair over in his haste to get to the phone, pausing only to print the article and turn off the computer. As he hurried down the hallway toward the rec room pay phones, two facts were fighting for prominence in his brain: _Caroline Reynolds had just been connected to Henry Pope,_ and more importantly, unless Michael was gravely mistaken, _Pope was indebted to Reynolds, and had been for years._


	13. Chapter 13

_Month 6_

 _Day 22_

 _5:50 pm_

Despite the fact that Michael was calling early, Sara picked up on the first ring. "Thank God," he breathed. "I'm so glad I caught you."

"Michael?" She seemed distracted….faintly on-edge.

"Listen to me, Sara. Henry Pope-"

"He blocked Lincoln's transfer to Ad Seg," she interjected in a rush. "Why would he do that?"

Michael leaned heavily against the counter in the rec room, gripping the phone tightly in his palm. Still it slipped in his hand, slick with sweat. "Because he's acting under coercion. He's connected with Caroline Reynolds."

"With…the president?"

"Who wants Lincoln dead."

He heard Sara's sharp intake of breath. "Michael, he's gone. He's left for a conference for three days."

"Leaving Bellick in charge."

"And a race riot brewing."

Michael felt his heart plummeting. "Wait, what? A riot?"

Sara sounded distracted again. "Yeah. The normal suspects are behind it, I guess. In this case, the Aryans, it seems."

For the first time since commencing the call, Michael focused on the background noise he could hear past the quick cadence of her voice…the buzz of a security door and the trill of a phone. _Normal sounds, and yet, something was going to go down, and soon. Michael could feel it._ "Where are you? Are you still at work?"

"Yes. I'm just on my way down to A-Wing. I think I should put Lincoln in the infirmary for the night."

Michael immediately straightened. "Sara. No."

By her sudden silence, it seemed as though she had paused. He heard an intercom beep somewhere in the background once, and then twice. "Why not?" she asked.

Michael pinched his eyes shut. "He's a target. That's bad enough as it is…why would I want him anywhere near you?" He took a breath. "Stay clear of him."

"Now you sound like my father," she retorted sharply, and Michael clenched his jaw in frustration. _They did not have time for this._

"Tell me what you know about Pope," he requested instead. "Did he give a reason for not granting the transfer?"

Sara sighed. "No. According to Becky, he's been stressed and distracted, waiting for some important phone call from…" she paused…"Akron, I think. He left before I could speak to him."

"Ok." Michael pressed his head to the side of the phone booth, willing his mind to untangle so many seemingly unrelated facts. _Why didn't any of this add up?_ He nearly groaned aloud in frustration. _There wasn't one single shred of evidence tying foul play to Lincoln or anyone else that he could grab hold of and take action against. He was surrounded by clues…nothing more than hunches…that got him nowhere._

"What's it like there now?" he asked Sara abruptly.

She sounded as discouraged as he felt. "It's restless. It's not good, Michael. The C.O.s predict a riot to break within hours, but of course what can they do? What can _we_ do?"

 _Nothing._ They could do nothing. "Go home," he told her, and then, predicting her response, he tacked on a somewhat desperate addendum. "Please."

She was silent again for a moment. When she finally rebutted, however, she sounded weary. "But I could put Lincoln in the infirmary before I go," she persisted.

Michael swallowed hard before answering as gently as he could muster. "And how safe did the infirmary keep _you_ during a riot, Sara?"

He instantly regretted using that particular logic. Instantly, the image of her, trapped and desperate, was playing out unrelentingly in his mind. "Go home," he pleaded, and this time, he suspected the sheer anguish lacing his words caused her to relent.

"Ok," she whispered at length.

"You promise?"

"I'm going."

 _*****_

 _6:05 pm_

 _Akron. Aryans. Riots. Favors._ Even after Michael hung up the phone, the various shards of information were shifting and spinning through his brain. They went together, he knew they did, but every time they nearly clicked into place, something wouldn't fit. He was missing _something._

It was the moment he passed the activities bulletin board en route to the mess hall that the answer hit him. He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes taking in the scattered papers, the random clippings, and bright photocopies that made up the board. They wavered and blurred before him until he was seeing his own makeshift wall of information in his own apartment, his research on everything from Abruzzi to Toledo to Tancredi swimming across his consciousness until… _Akron_. The moment Sara had interjected the seemingly average city into the conversation, it had leapt out like a red flag in his mind, and now he remembered why.

He had researched a man in Akron-a homegrown white supremacist from Ohio turned anti-government radical and terrorist with close connections to the Aryan gang activity in Fox River. He hadn't learned much about him…just enough to know he specialized in the trafficking of homemade car bombs and to drop his name, Daniel Turner, if he had needed to.

 _He hadn't. At least, not until now._ He pivoted abruptly, pushing his way through the now-crowded hallway in his rush to get back to the payphones. A moment later, he had Sara back on the line. "Are you gone yet?" She answered with undisguised exasperation. "I'm working on it, Michael. I had to sign out."

He brushed her annoyance aside. "So you're still there?"

" _Yes."_

"There's something I need you to do, if you can. As you leave, stop by Pope's office. See if you can ask Becky if the call Pope was waiting for was from a Daniel Turner."

Her irritation was gone in a flash. "Daniel Turner?"

Michael nodded. "Can you do that?"

"I'll call you right back." 

_6:15 pm_

It was shockingly easy to get Henry Pope's private phone history from his secretary. "Yeah," Becky had smiled without so much as a hint of reservation. "A Mr. Turner. That's right. Is he a colleague of yours, too?"

Sara had managed to look only fleetingly interested. "Sure. I had heard he'd be at the conference, so it prompted me to ask." She turned with a quick wave before Becky could ask more. "You'll have a quiet few days around here, at least."

Becky beamed. "Don't think I'm not looking forward to it."

Two minutes later, her phone rang again. She grabbed for it just as she opened her car door, balancing her purse on one shoulder. She didn't bother to glance at the display. "How did you know?" she exclaimed by way of greeting.

"How did I _know?_ Sara, you signed in at a visitor register for the entire world to see! Last I checked, that included me, not to mention the security detail sworn to protect me…and by extension, you."

Sara felt all the air leave her lungs in a rush. _"Dad."_ She attempted to breathe. "How did you get this number?"

"I just told you, Sara. I am the governor of this state. Every day, that could put you at risk, whether you want to believe it or not, and every day, it's my men's job to make sure it doesn't. If that requires a little digging into phone records, so be it."

"To make sure I'm not embarrassing you, of course."

"No Sweetheart. You embarrass _yourself_ just fine."

Sara finally sucked in a gulp of air. _She would not lose control. Not right now._ "I don't have time for this Dad."

"I bet you don't. I bet you're worried about missing a phone call." Sara sank into the driver's seat, dropping the phone momentarily to her lap as she shut the door behind her. Her father was shouting…she could hear him just fine. "Two and a half months of daily phone records, Sara." She picked back up the phone. His tone was now ice. "Do you know how many calls that is? _82\. 82 calls,_ every single one of them from East Moline Correctional Center. I mean, _my God,_ Sara."

Her hands-one gripping the cell phone, one clutching the side of the upholstery-were nearly shaking from the adrenaline boost of anger and nerves. "Are you finished?"

"Don't tell me you've given him the same savior complex you've bestowed upon his brother," her father shouted. "Next you're going to tell me he didn't rob a bank."

 _Stay in control. Stay in control._ She spoke with cold, deliberate calm. "I know he robbed a bank."

"That's right, honey. _He robbed a bank._ He robbed a bank _at gunpoint!_ Is any part of that sentence getting through to you?"

She felt the tears flood her eyes and wash down her cheeks unchecked. They couldn't be helped. "We're going to have to discuss this at another time, Dad."

"Michael Scofield is not some junkie for you to _fix,_ or get your fix _from,_ or whatever the _hell_ you like to play at, Sara. He is _not_ that kind of man!"

She could barely breathe again. "I know that."

"This is a _federal prisoner_ , Sara."

 _Shut up, shut up, shut up._ "I'm humiliating you. I get it."

He made a frustrated, strangled sound that to Sara's utter shock sounded very much like a sob. _"No,"_ he insisted harshly. "That is _not_ it." His voice dropped an octave but lost none of its intensity. "You are my daughter," he implored. Sara got the absurd impression he was asking her for something, although she had no idea what. "And when I am handed a security tape that shows that man embracing you in a minimum security visitation room," he continued, "I want to _rip his arms from his body_. Do you understand me?" His voice rose again. " _You are my daughter."_

Pain washed over Sara in waves. "Dad. I can't…I can't do this now."

He didn't seem to hear her. "He looks like…" he began, and then faltered as if having difficulty forming words. Suddenly, Sara wondered if the surveillance tapes were playing right before him at this moment. "In the video," he confirmed. "I can't figure what he's playing at."

 _My God._ "He loves me, Dad," she said simply, although she didn't know why she bothered. "Is that so impossible to believe?"

To his credit, he answered swiftly, if bitterly. "No."

"Well it is to _me,_ Dad. It is to me." She took what she hoped was a calming breath. "Please," she entreated. "Just, please don't mess with this. Just not today. _Please."_

His tone had lost all emotion when he answered; she couldn't begin to decipher his thoughts. In hindsight, it was probably for the best. "I have to go," he told her flatly. "I'll call you later."

 _*****_

 _6:35 pm_

He had been trying to get a hold of her for the past 15 minutes. _How on earth could her line be busy?_ Finally, on his fifth try-he was rapidly going through ever quarter in his possession-she picked up. "Where have you been?"

Her voice sounded odd. "My father called me."

He blinked. "On this phone?"

She gave a shaky laugh. "Apparently tracing a Trakfone isn't exactly rocket science to the secret service."

He closed his eyes, biting his lip hard. "Are you ok?"

She laughed bitterly again. She sounded vaguely hysterical. "No, not really. But Michael, you were right. It was Daniel Turner who was calling Pope."

He nearly staggered backward with the gravity of her message. He could barely believe it. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he had been counting on the fact that he was wrong. That he was overreacting…jumping to wild conclusions. _"Oh, no,"_ he intoned despairingly. _No, no."_

Sara sounded alarmed. "What does that mean?"

He forced his attention from his now-imminent fear for Lincoln back to her voice. "He manufactures explosives, Sara," he breathed. "He traffics car bombs."

She was clearly at a loss for words. "What? But do you think Pope…No way, Michael."

" _Yes,"_ he nodded swiftly. "He owes Reynolds. From as far back as the late nineties. She must have leaned on him, and leaned on him more, and now, he's arranged for some sort of transaction with Turner. Of course, now he's gone, and the race tensions are stirred up, and it's all a cover, because my brother is about to be targeted with something much more serious than one man, coming at him with fists."

"But Michael, Lincoln won't be _in_ a car."

His fear presented in sarcasm. "I guess the guy has expanded his business."

Sara exhaled. "Ok, but all the same, we don't have any proof!"

"We don't need it. Our hands may have been tied when we were dealing with a potential riot, but now it's an act of terror." He almost smiled at the simplicity of it. "My point is, anyone can call in a bomb threat, and it has to be acted upon."

"But Michael, if you're wrong…"

"I'm right." He forced his voice to sound as steady as he felt. "I'm _right,"_ he repeated.

And he was. He was sure of it. At precisely 6:40 pm, he slid yet another quarter into the slot and called in the bomb threat to Pope's office. He knew that when Becky answered, the display on her handheld would announce that the call came through from East Moline, but otherwise, the payphone sheltered his identity; there was little way for anyone to narrow the caller down further.

Sara sat in her car in the parking lot for only five minutes before she heard the first sirens turning off the highway to head down both Percy Avenue and English Street toward the prison. Seconds later, the well-ordered precision that was the standard protocol for inmate evacuation was set into motion; as the prisoners filed out to wait in the yard, she walked the short distance to the main gate, straining to see Lincoln emerge into the winter dusk.

Psych ward came out first, practically glowing in their starched whites, followed by Death Row, the SHU, and Ad Seg. A-Wing was last, but finally, _finally_ she saw him, keeping step with the inmate marching in front of him, curving around the side of the building toward the far yard. _Thank God._

Her phone rang again, and this time, she checked the display and was glad she had. It was her father again. "Yes."

"What's going on at Fox River?" he demanded. "You're out of there?"

"I'm outside," she said simply. She wasn't entirely sure she had the emotional capacity for another round, of any sort, with her dad, but that, apparently, was not to be avoided; having already been advised of a potential riot, he was en route even as they spoke.

In the end, the entire process of the evacuation and subsequent search of the prison took over three hours. Sara stood to the side with the correctional officers and staff, watching as bomb-sniffing dogs were led in and out of the buildings and both explosive-defusing and hazmat teams arrived in full protective gear. Local police, sheriff department, and F.B.I. clustered around the black government-issued SUV her father arrived in only 30 minutes after they had last spoken, keeping him abreast of every new development.

After the first hour, the sense of urgency began to wane, and even Sara grew more and more despondent as the field teams continually came up with nothing. Time seemed to slow to a crawl and she grew stiff with cold. She drew her coat more tightly around herself, watching her breath steam the night air, and she wondered how they had gotten this so very, very wrong.

Michael called one last time just after 9:30 pm, and as she informed him that nothing had been found, she was of a split mind as to whether she was imparting good news or bad. To Michael, it was decidedly bad.

"That can't be," he told her flatly, and she was forced to bite back a halfhearted lecture on the merits of accepting defeat.

"Since when is _not_ finding an explosive in a building full of people a bad thing?" she prompted softly instead. Lincoln was safe, after all. He was sitting only feet from her in a line of inmates, and it was very late…she was tired and cold and thoroughly emotionally spent. All around her, law enforcement rigs were pulling out, officers heading home, and now, she wanted nothing more than to follow their lead. When Michael suggested she go home, this time, she didn't argue.

Instead, she wrapped her coat more securely around herself and turned toward the staff parking lot. At the edge of the crowd of law enforcement vehicles, however, she paused, eying her father's SUV warily. She could slip out of here without a word, but in the end, she deliberated only a moment before making her way toward him, weaving through the officers and C.O.s bottlenecking the gates. She knew she had reason enough to be angry with him for the span of several lifetimes, but if there was one thing she had learned in the last six months, it was that time alone cures nothing. _Life was too short to spend it furious at her only flesh and blood on this earth._ If nothing else, she was too tired for it.

"Dad," she greeted him quietly, and was somewhat surprised when he looked up immediately, hearing her more accurately than she had anticipated through the commotion.

Whatever his thoughts upon seeing her in the wake of their last conversation, only one emotion showed on his face, and it was enough to bring a lump to Sara's throat. _Perhaps,_ she thought _, there was such a thing as unconditional love between the two of them after all._

 _*****_

 _10:18 pm_

Forty-five minutes after telling Sara to go home and to sleep, Michael was still sitting in the now nearly empty rec room. He needed to get up and make his way to his bunkhouse for Count, but still he remained, head in his hands, thinking. _He couldn't seem to let this go._

Sara's logic kept echoing back and forth within the confines of his brain, taunting him. Prompting him to re-examine the splintered clues over and over again. " _Since when is_ not _finding an explosive in the building full of people a bad thing?"_ she had asked, and for Michael, that single sentence illuminated the very core of his doubt. It was a bad thing, because to his way of thinking, the lack of evidence didn't prove that a bomb wasn't there, only that they had not yet _found_ it. Instead, Michael felt sure it was hidden away somewhere, counting down minutes and seconds, ticking away time in which he sat here, immobilized.

He closed his eyes, trying to picture it _-where?-_ and even though he knew nothing of the mechanics of explosives, he imagined multi-colored, overlapping wires, tangles of plastic that somehow intertwined, uniting for a common, destructive purpose. He imagined each fragmented fact as a separate line to unwrap and unwind, to untwist one by one from the knot of confusion and fear snarling his mind.

 _The simplest logic is almost always correct,_ he told himself. If Turner made car bombs, then it stood to reason that his transaction with Pope was concerning a car bomb. _One thread untangled._ And following that thin cord of reason to its logical end, the bomb was almost certainly meant for someone with a car. _A second thread unwound._ Someone who would be in it tonight, especially if a race riot broke out in Fox River. Someone whom Caroline Reynolds is threatened by. _The knot was unraveling, the wires spreading out flat and clear before him._ Someone she wants revenge upon in conjunction with Lincoln.

Michael opened his eyes as the answer hit him with a jolt, only to leap upward into action. _The bomb was at Fox River. And it was in a car._

 _It wasn't targeted at Lincoln. It was targeted at Frank Tancredi._

 _*****_

 _10:24 pm_

 _  
_ _Six minutes until Count._ Michael once again reached for the pay phone and punched in Sara's number. When he was directed immediately to the generically recorded voice mail, he didn't waste time trying again. She'd turned it off. He only hoped that meant she was home, not at Fox River, or-the possibility hit him like a death blow- _not in her father's car._

He slammed the phone back into the cradle and pressed his forehead harshly against it, thinking. He had no idea what Frank Tancredi's personal cell phone number was, but he was going to have to try to reach it all the same. He started with information, then waited with what amounted to the very last vestige of his patience ticking away, his nerves now scrambled beyond recognition, while he was connected to the public line to the governor's offices. Once there, he punched in extension after extension until finally, at 10:26, the rec room lights now pulsing in warning, he reached a human being. "My name is Michael Scofield," he blurted, "and I need to be connected with the governor right now." He didn't wait for the overworked aide to burst into laughter. _"I have information on a threat to his life."_

He doubted he was believed, but his bluntness did reward him with a hasty transfer to Trancredi's secret service detail. He gave all the same information in a rush, adding everything he could about Turner and Pope and Fox River in the span of about fifteen seconds. "Is the governor still at the prison?" he demanded, but as he expected, he received no answer.

"I'm going to have to ask you to remain on the line," the agent informed him sharply instead, and Michael darted a frantic glance to the clock mounted on the opposite wall. _10:28._

He was transferred twice more, until finally, just as the lights shut off around him for good and he knew he was officially late for Count, he heard the distant wail of sirens on the other end of the line, punctuated by the more pressing sounds of voices and barked orders and general commotion. _Fox River._ And hopefully…yes… _Frank Tancredi himself._

 _"_ _Michael Scofield,"_ the governor barked as a phone was evidently thrust upon him, and even from the distance of East Moline, Michael nearly recoiled against the hatred radiating from his words. _"This had better be good."_

Michael took such a deep breath it hurt his lungs. "Do not get into your car," he said firmly and clearly. If he didn't stay calm, if he didn't allow himself time to give at least enough pertinent information for the authorities to follow the thread of his hasty investigative work, he knew without a doubt that this phone call was going to earn him only one thing: the entire blame. Frank Tancredi hardly needed much incentive.

He heard footsteps sounding in the hall just as the alarm in East Moline began to blare through the speakers in every corner of the cavernous room. Minimum security prisons didn't tolerate missing inmates at Count any better than maximum security did. _"Listen to me, Governor,"_ he implored, raising his voice to a near shout to be heard. "Warden Henry Pope is connected to Caroline Reynolds. Check the Bloomington Pantograph May, 12, 1997. In addition, Pope must have used connections from the prison to contact a man by the name of Daniel Turner. Turner is a trafficker of homemade car explosives. He's been watched for terrorist activity since 2003-you can check it out yourself." A pair of C.O.s rounded the corner, spotted Michael, and approached at a trot, mace and bully sticks drawn. "We got him," one barked into his radio. The other started shouting. _"_ _Put the phone down! Get your hands up!"  
_  
 _"_ _You're being targeted for your role in my brother's exoneration,"_ Michael shouted swiftly into the phone over the volume of the alarm and the yells. The C.O.s were almost upon him-he had two seconds…three at best. _"For that,"_ he said, _"please know that I am deeply sorry."_

The phone dropped from his hands as the C.O.s grabbed him, wrestling him away from the phone despite the fact that he was no longer resisting. An instant later, he was staggering blindly backward, the feel of cuffs clinking into place as he was hauled roughly down the hall.

Sara has seen her father's demeanor shift the instant his head security officer had tapped him on the shoulder, whispering something in his ear while simultaneously handing him his satellite phone. Even before he had roared Michael's name, a muscle near his eye had twitched, his jaw visibly tightening as he brought the phone to his ear. She had immediately risen from her impromptu seat adjacent to him, watching him closely.

She hadn't dared interrupt, but now, the instant he broke the connection, she surged forward. _"What did he say?"_

Her father didn't answer right away. He looked shaken, yet Sara recognized the stubborn glint in his eye for what it was…a characteristic refusal for compliance, whatever the request or warning may have been. She was about to press him, ready to shake him if she had to…anything to emphasize the gravity of any situation that would have Michael risking a call to the governor himself, when the chance was snatched away from her.

Her father was looking past her toward the gate, where a siren was suddenly bleating once, and then twice as another government vehicle was trying to edge its way into the center of the yard. As Sara watched, Henry Pope himself leapt out of the car and barreled toward them both, his face a pale imitation of its usual health and vigor. He looked ill.

After that, everything happened very, very quickly. Henry was shouting, the bomb squad was canvassing the area, and Sara and Frank were pulled back, along with everyone else in the vicinity, away from the car. At first, her father was protesting, but then he was conversing with Henry, his own face quickly paling at whatever information Pope was rapidly imparting. Sara only caught fragments of their conversation _-She can do what she likes with me…I can no longer delude myself that living under her thumb only punishes myself and mine…Her ambition knows no bounds-_ before a device the size of a shoebox but flatter than a square of cardboard was carefully extracted from the bottom of her father's SUV.

The sight of the explosive was so surreal, she could only stand and stare at it for what must have amounted to a full minute. _Her father had been baited here…to her side…to Fox River…and in another half an hour, or maybe less, he would have gotten back in that car, and…_ And that was as far as her mind could take her.

She turned to take in the sight before her instead. Henry Pope was sitting in utter defeat on the running board of a Sheriff's department rig, stoically reciting the entire story of his and Reynold's decade-long history of blackmail to the F.B.I., owning up to his own guilt in the procurement of the explosive and his subsequent realization that the woman who was running his country had become insane in her thirst for power. As Sara crossed before him toward her own car, he glanced her way, catching her eyes in the glare of the many spotlights and lamps illuminating the yard. He didn't ask for forgiveness or make excuses, although Sara imagined he wanted to do both. Instead, at first he said nothing, and it was such a poignant pause, silently screaming of both regret and self-loathing, it nearly broke what was left of Sara's resolve.

"I…" he began, and then stopped, shaking his head tightly. "I was willing to sacrifice another person's life just to make my own life easier," he told her softly. It was almost as though he were speaking to himself. A hundred retorts sprang to Sara's mind, but something in his tone-pure, undiluted regret-had her swallowing them all. He looked directly up at her. "What kind of man does that?"

She didn't have an answer.

Michael spent the night in the lock-up, East Moline's version of the SHU, alone with the torture of not knowing what had transpired after his call had been abruptly terminated. His release back into the general population at 10 am the next morning caught him by surprise-despite the fact that he had only been chatting late on the phone, after all, not scaling a wall-but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Sara waiting for him in the visitation room the moment he got out.

From the looks of her, she hadn't slept at all the previous night, either, and instantly, fear bubbled up in his chest, reaching a boiling point before he could even get within speaking distance. _Something must have gone very wrong._ When he was brought up in front of her, however, she only wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her face solidly into his shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered, her hands gripping the back of his shirt tightly. "I really thought…I really thought there was nothing more to search for."

He pulled back slightly, holding her at arm's length in order to study her face. "What happened?" he implored. "Your dad. He's…?"

"He's fine," she replied swiftly. "You didn't know?"

He could only shake his head. A minute later, they were seated at a table, three local papers-approved reading material that could be purchased right there in the room-spread out between them. One by one, Michael skimmed through all accounts of the story. According to the Chicago Tribune, as a directly result of his call, authorities had found a "VBIED", or Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device, on the underside of the government vehicle that had carried Frank Tancredi to Fox River. Circumstantial evidence linked the implementation of the crime to absentee Warden Henry Pope, who arrived on the scene to take the blame, and the explosive itself to the handiwork of well-known car-bombing expert and terrorist cell ring leader Daniel Turner. Both men had been taken into custody during the night, and now await trial for the attempted assassination of the governor of Illinois.

Apparently, all of Michael's leads, shouted so desperately as his time ran out on the pay phone, had been followed, and, under the lead of the F.B.I and local police, proven correct. Frank Tancredi had been thorough.

After a time, he looked up from the newsprint to Sara in amazement. "We were right," he said softly. "About all of it."

She smiled. "And look. Brad Bellick was fired by the interim warden and D.O.C, since the whole thing went down when he was first-in-command."

Michael grinned. "Oh, that shouldn't feel as great as it does." He reached for her hand, bringing it up to his lips to press a quick kiss to her knuckles. He rotated her wrist so that her palm faced upward, and then guided her hand back down to the table-top to thread his fingers through hers. Her grip curled deliberately around his, and with his eyes, he followed the path of her thumb grazing his. His face sobered. "I'm so relieved about your father."

She squeezed his hand, her eyes momentarily closing. "Me, too," she whispered, and then paused, shaking her head in disbelief. "I cannot believe he took your call."

Michael released an abrupt breath. "Me, neither."

Sara frowned, glancing back at the scattered newspapers. "You're not credited with any of this," she remarked.

Michael shrugged. "You dad knows who to credit." He chanced a glance her way. When he caught her gaze, he held it. "That's enough for me."

Sara's face sobered as well. He watched with some satisfaction as she swallowed tightly before answering. "That's very clever of you."

He toyed with her ring before glancing back up to her eyes. "But it's not why I did it."

She nodded silently, gratitude and admiration once again springing to her eyes along with a quick sheen of moisture. The sight of it caused him to steel against a sudden twist to his own heart. It was almost painful to observe; he vowed that someday, she would feel secure enough in his feelings for her to take his love…his dedication to everyone she cared for and everything dear to her…thoroughly for granted.

For today, however, he resolved only to change the subject before they were both crying. "You know," he mused, giving her hand a quick rap with his fingers, "you never seem to tell me when you're coming."

He smiled as Sara tilted her head to one side with more dramatic flair than he'd expect for someone operating off of so little sleep. "You never told me you were leaving," she reminded him with a raise of her eyebrows. "Why should I tell you when I'm coming?"

They spent their remaining visitation time alternating between the light, punchy banter so easily adapted in the wake of sleeplessness and stress and reliving the rushed panic of the day before. To Michael, the six-plus months remaining on his sentence stretched out like an eternity in comparison.

At length, they discussed that as well. Michael was scheduled to be released in June, and Sara had no intention of being shut out of visitation for the entire rest of the winter and spring. Looking at her across the space of the table, her posture suggesting an understated strength under the shadow of her fatigue and her presence carrying with it a delicate yet formidable hope, Michael had no desire to argue. They agreed upon three visits per month-they were allowed five, but any more and he insisted they would start to interfere with Sara's work and N.A. meetings-and as they said their goodbyes, she even generously offered to tell him of her arrival ahead of time once or twice.

He touched a finger to her hair, pushing a rogue tendril back from her face to tuck behind her ear as she straightened from his embrace. "See you next week, then," he told her, and she smiled as she leaned forward to place one more kiss to his jaw.

"Call me tonight," she requested, and the exchange felt so normal…such a simple, typical means of measuring time, of dividing days and hours, that as he turned away to be frisked, he wasn't sure whether the thick wave of emotion building in his chest would more likely lead to his stifling of laughter or tears.


	14. Chapter 14

_Four Months Later_

Month 10, Day 19

Michael felt as though he had been counting down time for what amounted to an eternity. He knew that wasn't so, of course, because as he marked off each day-oh, he was such a cliché!-as he watched each hour click by with a painstaking, maddening precision, he could see the procession of hours, minutes, and seconds sliding past easily enough for himself, marking the sun's path across the flat plane of the horizon outside his window in East Moline. All the same, on some days, in some instances, even for stretches of full weeks, time really did appear to stand still, the sun sluggish, the very shadows on the pavement stubbornly refusing, to Michael's eye at least, to stretch and then to ebb. It was during those moments that he felt most like a prisoner. That he felt most like a slave not only to the state, but to the universe at large, forced to remain utterly impotent, motionless and inert as the planet moved only in uninspired, lazy revelations, the months taking their painfully sweet time passing. With every morning, he felt a small pang of victory-one more day down!-but was simultaneously aware of wishing away his own life, his own allotted time on this earth.

He talked to Sara every night, and ironically-cruelly even-during that hour, time would seem to suddenly rally and then race, shooting forward in a torrent of double-speed. He had forgotten what it was like to become so engrossed in something as to lose all sense of the hours passing. He would get swept along in the current of Sara's laugh, or her story or question or confession, and when she hung up, the sheer momentum of their conversation would carry him swiftly forward for another minute or even two. Often, it wouldn't be until he was treading back down the hallway to his bunk that the loss of her voice in his ear would hit him, and he would falter, almost startled to find himself once again in devastatingly calm, still waters...cast adrift in the doldrums of yet another night boosting neither tide nor flow and appearing to have no end in sight. It was during those moments, not long after he heard the click of a connection lost and returned the phone to its cradle, the sun long set and the courtyard dark, that he wondered how he would survive until June.

It turned out, he didn't need to…not quite. Just a week after the Fox River car bomb threat, he was paid a very public visit by the governor himself. Driving up to the prison trailed by a less-than-subtle entourage of security as well as reporters from both the Sun-Tribune and the Times, he had offered Michael his hand and his thanks…the gratitude of his staff and the state. And as a parting gift? A month shaved off his sentence; _the best,_ Tancredi told him in an undertone as a camera bulb flashed behind them, the potency of his aftershave hitting Michael's nostrils with a powerful punch as he leaned close, _that he could do._

The next day, the papers hailed it a publicity stunt, but Michael saw the visit for what it was…all Frank Tancredi could offer. It was business…one man doing what was needed to maintain a working relationship with another, and for Michael, just the fact that Tancredi had deemed the effort necessary served as a welcome boost to his ego and his morale.

Of course, the visit wasn't a passing of an olive branch by any stretch of the imagination. Michael knew there were too many questions surrounding him-far too many-for the governor to actively welcome his presence in his life or his daughter's, but still, for the first time since his relationship with Sara began, he felt a thin ray of confident that these reservations, too, would be resolved in time. Caroline Reynolds was finished-Tancredi told him so himself-and with her power stripped and those closest to her talking, it was only a matter of time before the shadows surrounding her vendetta against his brother were dispelled. Until the conspiracy that had chased him for months had quietly self-destructed.

At any rate, time passed, as time always does, whether one is miserable or elated or anything in-between. Christmas came and went, Michael surviving the holiday only by casting his mind forward, imagining instead the _next_ one, in which he would be free to spend it with Sara and LJ and at least visit Lincoln. January passed with excruciating slowness, and February and March weren't much better. In April, Sara's birthday coincided with one of her visits to East Moline, a fact that actually found Michael of two minds. On the one hand, he wanted to share her birthday with her very, very badly, but on the other, he felt inexcusably selfish for asking it of her.

"Are you sure you don't have something better to do on your birthday?" he had asked her jokingly the night before, just to be immediately struck by a very intense fear that perhaps she actually did.

For her own part, however, she had quickly brushed away the question, and when she slipped into her seat across the table from him the next morning, she looked undeniably happy to be there. Her cheeks were flushed from the decidedly dismal spring weather, her hair long and loose and faintly frosted with rain, and she leaned forward eagerly across the table, thrumming her fingers against his playfully. To Michael, she looked not a day over 20. He offered her a coy glance. "Feeling your age this time?"

She raised both eyebrows in mock indignation, then seemed to reconsider, shrugging slightly in an endearing cross between lightheartedness and defeat. "You know," she smiled, "I think I am."

He shook his head in the negative and then captured her hand, stilling it. The movement effectively captured her gaze, too. He held it. "Happy birthday," he told her softly.

The look that stole over her face at the two simple words sent a quick twist straight to Michael's stomach; he could study that particular expression-although it was perhaps less of an expression than a _glow_ -all day long and never grow tired of it. But he found he was greedy…and impatient to see more. He reached down to the bench beside him and laid two origami roses on the table before her. He was rewarded immediately as the glow of her expression expanded, and then shifted, and he was watching delight and poignancy and memory all collide against the gentle flush of her cheekbones. She looked down at the proffered roses for a moment without reaching for them, and when she looked back up into his face, he noted with satisfaction that she was dangerously close to tears.

She touched one green tissue stem carefully. She was smiling. "Two?"

He kept his eyes on her face and said what he hoped they were both thinking. "And next year, three."

He watched her swallow. "A dangerous precedent to start, don't you think?"

"I certainly hope so."

She drew both roses toward herself and turned them over, admiring them. "You'll eventually have to outsource production." She was clearly trying for a lighthearted tone, but fell short by a hefty margin.

Michael cleared his throat roughly. "Never. Although I will admit I am ready to offer you more than arts and crafts."

She looked from the roses to his face swiftly in amused surprise. He hadn't meant his words as a euphemism, but she had clearly taken them as such. He found he didn't mind, and after an instant's deliberation, he decided he saw no reason to correct her. Instead, he sought the inside of her wrist with his fingers and softly stroked it. "Tell me what else you have planned for today."

They spoke of Sara's dinner plans with her father-he was actually in town for her birthday-Lincoln's faring in Fox River-Sara made sure to see him every month or so-and a conference Sara and Katie were planning to attend, but Michael got the sense that Sara was just biding her time, waiting to get around to some subject they hadn't yet covered. As much as he wished they had all the time in the world, they didn't have the luxury of beating around the bush in this way. "Tell me what you really want to talk about," he prompted bluntly.

For a moment, she looked like she might try to feign confusion, but something must have changed her mind. "It's only a month away," she said softly.

He felt his heart rate increase. Apprehension stiffened his spine. "Yes," he nodded cautiously. _His release date was scheduled for May 12, but he hardly needed reminding._

"I guess I'm just wondering…have you put any thought into, um…" she glanced down and then back up. "I guess I wondered what your plans were?"

 _Put any thought into it?_ It was all he'd been doing with his time, but whether out of lack of confidence or simply superstition of pushing his luck, he'd put off talking with her about it. He could see now that that was a mistake, but he'd been unsure…and so afraid…of assuming. Of overstepping or crowding her. Of rushing her. "You mean my plans for the day I'm released?" he ventured. His mouth felt dry.

She shook her head. "No. Well, _yes,_ but also…always?"

 _Oh._ He had _so_ many plans for always, and he was afraid that each and every one of them would scare her in their intensity. He shifted on his bench; suddenly the room sounded very loud, the voices of other inmates and visitors bouncing off the concrete walls and linoleum flooring more harshly than ever. He closed his eyes briefly, and when he reopened them, he tried very hard to see only her face. To feel only her fingers threaded through his own. He focused intently on that connection, and only then did he find he could answer her. "I have many, many plans for you and me, Sara, but I need you to tell me what _you_ want. Where you want me, that's where I'll be."

She answered him in barely above a whisper. It was only because he was watching her so closely that he interpreted her words at all. "I want you with me."

He felt a modicum of tension melt from his shoulders and neck. Still, now that they were finally discussing this, they might as well get to the specifics. "In your apartment?"

"Yes."

 _In your bed?_ he wanted to ask, but he didn't. He wouldn't. He didn't need to, anyway. Both the question and the answer were all over her face. His pulse began to gallop ahead of him again. "Then that's where I'll be," he told her simply.

She seemed suddenly unsure. "But is that where you want-"

"Sara." He offered her an amused smile. Now that the subject had been broached…now that it was on the table, as it were, he felt almost giddy. "Yes. It is."

She settled back on her bench more easily and returned his smile. Seemingly satisfied, she changed the subject. "Can I come pick you up then? On the 12th?"

He grinned, and then nodded, chancing a caress of her forearm while the closest guard was preoccupied with frisking another visitor. "I suppose I probably _could_ use a ride."

Month 11

Day 9

In the first week of May, Michael received an unexpected visit from Veronica. She appeared to be in an especially good mood, and he didn't have to wait long to find out why. "It would seem," she said cheerfully, "that for once, the fine State of Illinois has made a mistake in our favor."

He tilted his head to one side in piqued interest. "And how's that?"

She slid a document bearing the letterhead and seal of the D.O.C. across the table. "Apparently, they're a bit fuzzy on the days of the week."

He looked down at his official release papers. The date of his exit from East Moline was clearly indicated as Monday, May 12th."

"But the 12th is a Wednesday," Michael frowned. "Trust me, I know that particular week on the calendar backwards and forwards."

Veronica nodded. "Yep. But any discrepancy has to be altered to the earlier date." Her eyes shone as if she had just drawn a winning ticket. "You'll be leaving here on Monday…the 10th."

Michael couldn't contain a quick, victorious laugh. _Damn, it felt good to win a hand, however small._ When Veronica left a few minutes later, he was still smiling; in fact, all through the afternoon, he looked forward to telling Sara the news, but as the day wore on, he found himself beginning to rethink the situation.

 _Perhaps this was a opportunity,_ he thought. _Perhaps he could surprise her._ In a sudden burst of brainstorming, it occurred to him that he could make plans to take her somewhere…he found himself wildly debating whether he would be allowed to book plane tickets online to some desirable oasis or beach or cityscape, or whether Veronica could do it on his behalf. Within minutes however, his settings…the industrial whitewash of the walls, the unadorned metal frame of his bunk…came back into sharp focus, and he came to his senses. He didn't need to impress her with something glittery and exotic. No amount of four-star amenities would make her forget that as of a day prior, he had been incarcerated. It wouldn't make her forget all he'd done, and where he'd been. Where _they'd_ begun.

 _No,_ he decided. _He need only surprise her with himself. But,_ he added silently with grim determination as he made his way down the hallway to the rec room and the phone bank, _that didn't mean he had to wait for her to come to him while he remained shackled by all the trappings of a prisoner._ Instead, _he_ could come to _her,_ and as a free man, at that. He smiled at the possibility. If he was indeed out earlier than she expected, he could pick _her_ up, and not the other way around.

The plan formed slowly, the idea merely experimental; after all, it felt distinctly sneaky. The thought of keeping his early release from Sara caused his brow to furrow and guilt to flare across his mind. After a long deliberation, however, the temptation to surprise her-to keep that thrill of the upper hand-won out. He'd never considered himself to be a man with something to prove, but he had to admit that the thought of Sara coming back here, of watching while he gathered his few belongings and was deposited, quite nearly empty-handed, at her feet-in Michael's mind a burden…a liability…held no appeal. If he could help it _-and now, he could-_ the ever-strengthening thread of pride lacing his masculinity didn't want her to see him that way. Coming to her with even some semblance of dignity would surely be a gift to them both.

Even though his mind was made up by the time he dialed her number that evening-it was unusually late, she'd had a meeting to attend-while he waited for her to pick up, he decided there was a distinct possibility he would simply blurt out his news anyway. In the end, however, it was easy to keep his release date to himself; they spent their allotted time speaking of something entirely different altogether.

After their initial greeting, Michael settled in on the metal folding chair beside the pay phone. "So," he asked conversationally, "what are you doing?" It sounded unusually quiet in the background…no TV sounds, no music.

"Right now?" She paused, only to continue a bit vaguely. "Well, it's late, Michael. I had a long day."

Her hesitancy stirred his interest even while keeping him decidedly in the dark. "Ok, but that doesn't quite answer my question, does it?"

Now she sounded faintly apologetic. "I'm already in bed," she confessed.

 _And just like that, Michael realized that conjuring instant mental pictures were not always good for his cardiovascular system._ He took a gulp of air. "Ah."

He must have sounded as choked as he felt. "Michael?"

"Um, I'm not sure whether to ask for more details or not."

She made a sound that came out as a cross between a laugh and a snort; he had the distinct impression she was suddenly wide-awake. "Guess what I'm doing right now?" she prompted, her voice taking on a wickedly playful lilt so unlike her he nearly dropped the phone.

He managed to hold onto the receiver, albeit just barely. "You're _killing_ me," he told her in a hushed whisper. "You're killing me is what you're doing right now."

She laughed away his alarm. "I'm just teasing you!"

"I _know!"_

"No, I mean, I'm just sitting here, _truly._ In an old t-shirt. With a stack of case files." She sounded distinctly embarrassed now, while only made Michael's blood boil all the more.

"A t-shirt?" he managed tightly.

"Well, I didn't know there was going to be a Q & A!"

This time, he laughed. A second later, however, a swift melancholy came over him, taking him by surprise. "I _miss_ you," he told her softly. "How can I miss you so badly when we've never had the freedom of time together in the first place? When separation is all we've ever really known? Tell me how that is."

Her voice turned intriguingly husky as she dropped the banter. "I don't know. But I want you here so badly."

He turned toward the blank wall beside the phones in a futile attempt at further privacy. "Yeah? There?"

The faint trace of embarrassment was back. "Yes, Michael, _here._ Right here." Her tone turned confessional as her voice dropped to a whisper. "And right _now,_ too."

A million retorts, from playful to downright dirty, sprang to his mind, but in the end, all he could think of was the following week and the look on her face when she saw him outside prison walls for the first time, two days early at that. "I can't even begin to tell you how badly I want that, too," he told her, and he knew it was true; he meant it more than she could ever know.

Month 11

Day 15

His processing was complete by 3 pm, and by 3:15, he was stepping into the cab he had called to East Moline from the phone booth outside of the prison. He didn't have any idea what the two hour ride would cost him, and he didn't care. All he knew was how great it felt to be wearing his own clothes, his own wallet secure in the pocket of his pressed slacks…the ones he had last worn while standing in the center of a Chicago bank about to commit armed robbery. Veronica had seen to a money order in his name, and now, as the central Illinois scenery-had it always been so lovely, or was it just that in May, everything, down to each blade of grass, was in bloom?-flew past, he glanced down at his wrist.

The gold Rolex he entered Fox River with was long gone, but now, studying his unadorned cuff, it felt very good not to care. Time could go ahead and do what it would…for the first time in months, he wasn't counting. He wasn't eying each and every minute as a personal affront…as a challenge to be tackled and then wrestled into submission and destroyed. Time had just lost its bitter edge.

As he neared Chicago, however, he did find himself craning his neck to get a view of the digital display on the driver's dashboard. With no small amount of irony, he realized there was one last thing he did need to time correctly. _Five pm. Good._

The cabbie noticed his sudden apprehension. "Where to in the city, man?"

He shifted forward. "Actually, you need to go a little ways out 80. Fox River State Penitentiary."

He watched the cabbie's eyes shift to the rear-view mirror to study him intently. "Didn't you just get _out_ of prison, buddy?"

He only smiled. "Old habits are hard to break, I guess."

They merged onto the 80 and after only ten more minutes, Michael was staring out his window at the looming outline of the far wall of the prison. It was cast in shadow in the spring evening light; with the razor wire nearly disappearing from view in the glare of the sinking sun, the stonework looked almost artistic, the foundation of the outbuildings boasting a quiet craftsmanship he'd never noticed. Fox River was stately…almost beautiful. _How could that be?_

He glanced again at the dash. _5:20 pm._ Sara would be off at 5:30. Whether she went home on time, however, remained to be seen. He peeled off his suit coat, suddenly overly warm in the cab, and then loosened his tie.

At the front gate, the guard on duty was young and bored and barely glanced at his I.D. "Visitor parking on the left," he mumbled before returning to fiddling with the dial on his radio.

The cabbie turned to swing left, but Michael corrected him with a hand lightly on his shoulder. "Actually," he instructed, "we'll be going right." He pointed ahead. "Staff parking. You can let me out right there."

If the cabbie seemed surprised, he didn't show it. He was more intent on the obscene number flashing on his meter, which he brought to Michael's attention before he could roll to a stop. With a swift roll of his eyes, Michael paid the fare, then got out, sucking in a deep gulp of the mild spring air as he stretched his legs and turned, scanning the lot through the gathering twilight.

Her car was on the west side, tucked in between an SUV and a pick-up truck with a construction company logo and a temporary work pass in the windshield. She was still here then; thank goodness for that, or he would have been chasing that cab back down before it could leave the gates. As it was, he no longer had access to the time, nor a phone, so he just leaned on the hood of her car and waited.

And waited. He watched the sun sink behind the east wall, then the soft glow of lights flicker on one by one inside of the prison. He thought of Lincoln, somewhere just behind that brick and mortar, and then of Sara, upstairs, perhaps even killing time before awaiting his nightly phone call. From his vantage point by her car, he could just barely make out the infirmary window, but it was cast in shadow like the rest of the near wall…whether the light was on, he couldn't tell.

He rolled up his sleeves, wiping his palms against his pant legs-despite the cool air, he was sweating a bit more than he'd like-and had just begun to wonder if he actually had the wrong car when the back service door opened and he looked up with his heart in his throat, and _yes. It was her._

She was looking down, digging through her purse _-look up, look up-_ and then she was studying her shoes as she made her way toward her car. _Sara, look up!_ Finally, perhaps ten feet from him, her eyes raised to flick quickly over the parking lot, caught, stilled, and then widened in what could only be elated disbelief. He watched as her hands came up to her face to cover her mouth in shock, and then her shoulders were shaking _-was she laughing? Crying?-_ and she was closing the remaining distance between them.

He had time only to push himself off his perch on her car before she was in his arms, her hands tightly coiled around his neck, and then yes, he could deduce that she was both laughing _and_ crying, while simultaneously pulling him to her and pushing him back to study his face. _"What are you doing here?"_ she practically sobbed in a startlingly good imitation of his own first words the day of her inaugural visit to East Moline, her hands on his face and his shoulders and his neck. "How did you _get_ here?" He wrapped her into his embrace, squeezing her against him until he literally had to force himself to stop. To relax and release. At the same moment, she paused, her face fiercely suspicious. She laid one hand bracingly against his chest. "Wait. You didn't break out, did you?"

He laughed, shaking his head in the negative. He drew her against him again, swaying slightly as the full weight of her body pressed against his torso, the warmth and strength of her sending jolts of pleasure to his every nerve, from his fingers to his toes and everywhere in-between. He ran one hand over the curve of her head, stroking her hair, and then pulled back. He longed to kiss her; in fact, his mouth physically ached for hers, and if her naked assessment of every feature of his face, down to every quirk of his lips as he stood here studying her was any indication, he highly suspected the feeling was mutual. _But not now._ Not yet, when they were so very, very close to total and complete privacy.

"No, I didn't," he answered her belatedly. "I left the traditional way…by the front gate." He watched her face for her reaction. "Are you upset that I didn't tell you?" He swallowed, suddenly fearful. "I know you were going to pick me up, but I wanted to surprise you."

She grinned swiftly, and he was relieved to see that clearly, anger was the furthest thing from her mind. She glanced from his face _-the raw hunger was still there in spades-_ to her car and back again. "No," she assured him, although her voice as unsteady as he felt. She paused, then reached for his hand. "But I am assuming you still need that ride?"


	15. Chapter 15

Month 11, Day 15

6:20 pm

Sara drove the entire way home on autopilot, hyper-aware of Michael's presence in the seat next to her despite her best efforts to keep her eyes forward on the traffic. Still, she caught enough in her peripheral vision to cause her hands to feel unsteady on the wheel; from time to time, he tugged a bit at the loosened knot of his tie as they talked, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. She stole a glance at the contrast of crisp white cotton and dense ink, both of which seemed to slide so naturally across his skin it caused her breath to catch in her throat. She told herself it was nothing she hadn't seen before; how many times had she slowly folded the sleeve of his prison uniform back upon itself to expose the graceful curve of muscle across his radius, and yet, today was so different her stomach was beginning to twist with nerves. It wasn't just the suit, either…although God knew it was certainly… _distracting._ She turned off 80 and merged with the rest of the commuters into the city center, and he was telling her about the mix-up over his release and his meeting with Veronica, but she had to concentrate very hard on his words to comprehend them over the background static of her own brain, screaming _he's right here, he's right here, he's right here_ in a frantic mantra she couldn't seem to dispel.

Traffic was light for a weeknight, but all the same, she was faintly startled to find herself less than a block from her building. _It was probably a miracle she hadn't run an intersection or gotten a speeding ticket, or both._ She made a wide right into the driveway of her parking garage, and Michael's eyes snapped from her to the building looming overhead. "Wait," he said, and surprised, Sara found herself doing the polar opposite, hitting the speed bump without slowing, panic instantly searing across her brain. _Oh God. He_ did _intend for her to take him home to her apartment, didn't he?_

She chanced a glance at him. "What?"

He gestured toward the high-rise across the street. "I thought _that_ was your building."

She blinked. "No."

He shifted in his seat, his face working as though grappling with something unexpected. Sara slowed, pulling the car into its customary space, then turned to regard him nervously. "What's wrong?"

He must have read the unease in her expression as he swung his gaze back toward her. "Nothing," he reassured her with a smile, but he craned his neck to peer back at the apartments behind them once more, his palm coming to rest on her thigh. She waited, willing the warmth of his touch to remain superficial, rooted only on the surface of her skin. No higher. No further. _No luck._

"It's just that all this time," he explained slowly, I pictured you _there_. When I learned your address, I knew the area, and I thought I knew the building." He frowned, and Sara's pulse suddenly spiked with worry, but a moment later, he reached out to her and the next thing Sara knew, his hand was curved around her jaw and cheek and he was smiling again. "It doesn't matter."

She breathed. "Ok," she said with what she hoped passed for ease. She felt a bit disoriented-how did they get on the topic of apartment buildings? Her pulse continued to race; it was as though every time it leapt, its baseline did as well, setting a new, seemingly impossible standard for _normal_. Her palms were sweating, and if she didn't get out of this car…if she didn't do _something_ with herself to take the edge off even the slightest amount of coiled energy, she would completely unravel.

She reached for the door handle and her purse simultaneously, drawing herself out of the car in one fluid motion. She felt his eyes on her-they never, ever left her-and then he was directly behind her, following her toward the stairs to her apartment. With every step she took, her mind fell upon something he would see behind her closed door…laundry, folded, but not yet put away…dishes, God, had she done them or not?…definitely mail piled on the entryway table…she should have vacuumed…

"Sara?" She swung around, nearly colliding with him. "Isn't that it?"

She blinked. Yeah, that was her door, five feet back in the direction from which they'd come. "Sorry."

He looked amused, which did nothing for her pulse. My God, she felt like she was running a marathon. She really needed to get in better shape for this. _In better shape for what, exactly?_ her brain shot back, and when she moved to open the door, it took her two attempts to fit the key in the lock.

The interior of her apartment was as bad as she had feared, and also just as she had feared, Michael took it all in with one sweep of his gaze. He said nothing, but the smirk remained on his face. "I thought you were coming in two more days," she reminded him a bit defensively.

He stepped before her into the living room. "I didn't say a word," he commented mildly.

She followed behind him, seeing the apartment through his eyes as his gaze swept over her bookcases (fairly organized), her work stacked on the table before the couch and TV, and the dirty coffee mug (damn, then she _hadn't_ done the dishes) on the end table. It felt slightly odd to have him finally here, right in the center of her every-day trappings of her life, despite the fact that they'd spent literal hours already talking of such intimately mundane matters as dinner plans, work schedules, and family visits on the phone. It took a moment for her to identify the feeling as defenselessness. Of a distinct lack of control.

Watching him move around the room with obvious hesitancy-at one point, he randomly picked up the sweater she had flung across the end of the couch after returning home from work yesterday, just to set it back down again-didn't help her nerves. She felt uncharacteristically open and raw (naked was actually the word to come to mind, but she squelched that thought quickly), but underneath it all was something close to relief. _Now he's seen it,_ she thought. The band-aid was ripped off her life and her world was exposed. Had he arrived on Wednesday, she would have no doubt taken the extra notice to shove much of it in closets.

Still, as she moved past him into the kitchen, she was quite glad she had grocery shopped not terribly long ago. Just for something to do, she pulled open the refrigerator door and quickly scanned the contents. She shifted a bottle of orange juice and a carton of milk to see what else she had. "Do you want something to drink?" she blurted automatically. "I have, let's see…um-"

"Sara." His voice was directly in her ear; she nearly jumped. At it was, she stepped back abruptly, her heel coming down on his toe. His arm reached out to steady her, wrapping around her waist. He drew her back against him.

 _Ohhhh._ He held her there. She felt like a fish on a line, alive but breathless, a current of energy snapping through her. She was suddenly intimately aware of his thighs, his groin, his stomach, and his chest; it was all there in offering, seemingly hitting every pulse point along her body.

"We're alone," he told her, and still he held her, and she closed her eyes, some distant part of her brain registering the cool draft of air hitting her face from the open fridge. It seemed like an absurdly obvious statement now that it had been articulated, but to Sara's astonishment, she realized she actually _had_ needed to hear it. They _were_ alone, and she suddenly wondered how many minutes-or hours? Days?-it was going to take for that simple fact to sink in.

"Refreshments later, then maybe," she heard herself answer. She was still staring ahead, her gaze intently focused on a container of sliced melon.

His line of sight must have followed her own, because, without releasing her, he reached over her shoulder into the fridge. The forward movement brought his body even more completely against hers; sensation seared across her back and bottom while she drew an abrupt breath. "But what's this?" he asked, and then he was drawing a dark green glass bottle of sparkling nonalcoholic cider that she had _almost_ forgotten she'd purchased out of the door of the fridge.

 _Oh, God._ Instant embarrassment rose in a flush across her face. _Thank goodness for the cold air._ "It was an impulse buy," she said quickly. This was true, but still, the idea of champagne…not even real champagne…suddenly seemed painfully idealistic and not a little bit overly romantic. Both things she was not. Not usually. "It was right by the register."

He said nothing, although he made several false starts. She could feel his efforts to breath normally positively vibrating along her spine as he drew air from the depths of his chest-one shaky inhale, a near violent exhale. She took her own bracing breath and continued in a voice that absolutely did not sound like her own. For one thing, it was glaringly hesitant. "I thought there was a good possibility we would have something to celebrate."

She didn't know if it was the cider or her words in particular, but instantly, she knew it had been the right thing to say. The proverbial ice was broken. She felt his entire demeanor shift, although at first, she couldn't tell if her purchase of the cider had provoked him into a carnal aggression or tenderness. "Look at me," he said almost reverently, and then seemed to decide she was taking too long in computing his words. He turned her by the shoulders, and then she could see clearly that it was both. After continuous jitters and more than one misstep, they were now undeniably on the same page.

One long arm reached across her to shut the refrigerator door with enough determined force to cause the jars and bottles lining the door to cling together in a cacophony of glass hitting glass, and then she felt her back hit the flat plane of the appliance. He looked down at her, and she just had time to worry whether she should still feel embarrassed before his mouth captured hers and the sheer force of his kiss sent her thoughts spinning in a million scattered directions.

 _He had never kissed her like this._ This was no hastily stolen moment, no quick press of his lips snuck into their day. No one was hovering, threatening to break the spell, no clock was ticking at the edges of their minds, reigning them in, giving them pause. In the moments of Sara's deepest doubt, she had worried that when the conditions were such, when they were finally alone, perhaps some of the thrill would be lost; that maybe a significant part of the lust that tore across her body every time his eyes flicked over her within the confines of the infirmary or the visitation room was reserved for the illicit nature of their affair more than the affair itself.

 _She needn't have worried._ Her entire body was burning with the low-grade, confined heat of a furnace, her hands pulling him closer even as his torso pinned her securely against the door. One of his hands was deep in her hair, the other still holding the bottle of cider; she heard it clang alarmingly as he deposited it on the tiled counter-top.

She kissed him back, trying to hold her own against the onslaught of his mouth, then trying only to remain on her feet as he consumed her, his lips now on her cheeks and her jaw and her throat. She tilted her head back, closing her eyes at the feel of half-a-day's whiskers scraping the tender skin of her neck. When he paused for breath, she arched into him, curling her arms around his neck as his hands came up to frame her face. He let his forehead come to rest against her own and sighed. _"We're alone,"_ he repeated softly, and she thought she felt him shudder.

Just like that, the fierce momentum of a few seconds earlier was replaced by an almost dizzying calm. Sara felt both as though she had been left somewhere stranded-throbbing, aching-and as if someone had just paused for her, hand outstretched, waiting for her to catch up. She took the moment to breathe.

After a few seconds, or maybe a minute, or-oh hell, who _cared!_ -she tipped her face back upward, kissing him languidly, brushing her tongue past his lips and stroking the warmth of his mouth with slow, deliberate sweeps. His entire body was tightly coiled against hers, his hands on her neck and shoulders and then dropping to her sides, spanning her ribcage over the thin fabric of her blouse. Her tongue continued to tangle with his, and she closed her eyes again, allowing herself to simply feel and taste and float along the current of their hunger.

The sensation of being here with her, like this, reminded Michael bizarrely of being on a rollercoaster…of being strapped in, deliciously stripped of control as he careened ahead only to spin and fall and rise…to jerk abruptly to a stop before continuing on again. They were rising _now_ , he and Sara, clicking steadily upward in anticipation of reaching a pinnacle that promised to provide a heady rush of surrender. He could feel the pace of their kiss increasing again, the clasp of her hands on his hips a bit clumsier, a bit more desperate than a moment before. He brushed his mouth to the corner of her lips, and then her nose and temple before pulling back to regard her.

She was visibly aroused, her cheeks flushed in a way only skin as pale as hers could reveal, her eyes dark as they met his, the edge of her mouth turning upward in a hesitant whisper of a smile. _Damn._ His gut, among other things, tightened anew, and he glanced quickly down, away from her gaze and her mouth in a laughable attempt at regaining some semblance of composure.

It was a bad idea. Her chest was rising and falling with the efforts of her breathing, and the blush across her face had spread here too, lacing her collarbones with a brushstroke of delicate pink. Her shirt was white and thin and open at the collar, and he reached for the first button so tentatively he heard her make a low noise of impatience from somewhere deep in her throat.

He was pretty sure he made a similar sound in response, but the next thing he knew, he had dipped his head and placed an open kiss to the hollow of her throat, and she had arched in his arms, causing what blood remained in his brain to depart with such swiftness his dexterity evaporated; it took him several tries to free the button from the hole. He moved to the second, and then the third, his mouth still plying her neck, and then paused, drawing her even closer and pressing his lips instead to the exposed skin of her chest just above the splay of white lace that peeked out from her shirt. For the first time in minutes, he spoke.

"Your heart is pounding."

She released a shaky sigh that to his surprise was still studded with nerves. "I don't think that's going to change any time soon."

He reached for the fourth button. "There's always been this line," he breathed into her neck, "that we could not cross…and even after breaking so many rules…we never did." He turned his head to press his mouth a bit lower, into the hint of a hollow that ended in intriguing shadow. He found the fifth button, and then the sixth; upon its release, her shirt fell open and he dipped his mouth just a little lower…maybe half an inch…and then half an inch more, his tongue skimming the lace at the rise of one full breast. _One perfect breast._ "The line…" he murmured, "it became a bit blurred, but it was always there."

His hands continued to brace her ribcage even as his fingers ached to reach higher to skim across the lace of her bra, to curve and capture and cup her. Instead, they felt unnaturally numb on her skin, displaced from his body and somehow out of the scope of his conscious command. Likewise, his voice felt disembodied, his mouth trailing across her skin of its own accord. So many months of unyielding, sometimes vicious internal dialogue reminding him that _he absolutely could not touch this woman_ were very, very hard to dispel. Even with the scent of her skin in his nostrils, her proximity alone pressing its advantage, her spine curving subtly as she offered herself right now, here, _today,_ he was desperately attempting to exorcise the overpowering message of the past year, the one that repeated continually in no uncertain terms that _she was not his._ "I'm afraid that this boundary," he continued, and then faltered at the sound of her whimper as he tasted her skin once again, "is going to be very hard to erase."

He felt her gaze as she opened her eyes to regard him. _He hadn't even realized they were closed._ The decisiveness behind her answer took him by surprise. "You're going to have to get past that, Michael," she breathed, and as if in illustration, her hands rose deliberately to tug on his shirt; once she'd freed it from the waist of his pants, she slipped her hands underneath to run her fingers in slow arcs against his stomach. Her voice gave an odd lurch of a laugh. "And the sooner the better."

He closed his own eyes tightly at the feel of her fingers skimming his abs, then willed his hands to move. His thumbs at least complied, caressing the soft skin along her ribs. He wanted to draw them higher…he wanted to feel the shape of her breasts under his palms. He recalled their few frantic seconds in the confines of the SHU-the firm jut of her nipples through the fabric of her shirt-and he wanted the chance to replay that particular moment so badly it hurt. And yet: "It isn't that simple."

"Yes it is." He felt her hand still on his stomach, and then she was reaching for his own and capturing his wrist. Before his brain could compute her intent, she had run his hand-hers overlaid-up the plane of her ribcage to settle beneath one full breast. She stopped there, but looked at him in almost wretched longing punctuated with steady challenge. _He knew that look._ He had seen it so many times before.

Suddenly he was recalling her standing at the fence; they were both sweating in the heat, her shirt clinging to her skin. _So you're married._ Then her gaze was upturned, open, asking, his cheek cradled in her hand. _What do you want from me, Michael?_ Her shoulders were squaring, she was straightening. _Until then, I can't._

She could _now. They_ could. They had done their time, both of them. He reached for her, and as he found her, closing his hand fully over her breast felt akin to leaping into the deepest, most fathomless pool; every sense was instantly, irrevocably submerged in sensation. Suddenly, the phrase _jumping in with both feet_ took on new meaning, and he was kissing her again, pushing upward through a filtered haze of desire, pure and powerful. He heard Sara sigh, and his fingers began to move, stroking her and kneading her until she was moaning into his mouth. Just like that, they were racing forward again.

His free hand relieved her of the shirt altogether, and then she was pulling off his, her mouth on his shoulder and bicep and _oh_ the tightened rise of his own nipple. Suddenly, even with his body flush against hers, he couldn't get close enough. _He needed them to move._ He pulled her away from the fridge and guided her out of the kitchen, walking backward with awkward, distracted steps toward the living room. At the couch, he sank down, pulling her on top of him.

"I _do_ have a bed," she laughed with a bit of a quiver, and then sobered instantly as he pressed her back into the cushions, his hands now almost rough on her breasts and his mouth traveling the length of her stomach. Her legs tangled with his as he shifted to gain better access to the smooth skin just below her belly button, and he stopped for a breath before dipping his head again and tasting her navel, his fingers curving around the waistband of her pants. He heard his name from her lips somewhere above him, and then felt her hips arching upward toward his touch. _She was_ squirming, _and he couldn't remember a time he'd ever been so satisfied with the result of his efforts._

Sara could feel the warmth of Michael's mouth like a sensor slowly creeping down the length of her torso…breasts, ribs, abs, belly…and then, _lower_ , until the scruff of his chin was grazing the waistband of her pants. She looked down-the sight of his head bent to her body and the feel of his tongue…darting, licking, _devouring_ had her reeling. She shifted against the couch, her hips rising in answer, and she felt his palms fall from her stomach to slip between the cushions and her bottom, supporting her. Drawing her further upward toward him. She thought she may have just said something about her pants… maybe something low and dreamy, but she really couldn't hear much beyond the pounding of her pulse. It could well have been desperate and demanding, but either way, Michael was complying, his long fingers swiftly working the button and then the zipper. The second he had them loose, he tugged in one fluid motion and Sara felt the cotton of her work attire fall well past her hips to be replaced instantly by the decisive yet undeniably graceful palpations of Michael's hands. She experienced a moment of panic as she forced her mind to operate, casting back in her memory to this morning in an attempt to remember what underwear she had randomly chosen. She couldn't recall, but then his head bent to her again, and… _oh!_ …this time, his lips found thin cotton and lace as he pressed his mouth lower and lower, each kiss like a brand upon her body and she no longer cared. All trace of his earlier hesitancy had dissipated with their talk of lines and rules and boundaries, and what remained was a Michael so in possession of his confidence-so in possession of _her_ -that she was now little more than a puddle of love and lust and want.

His mouth was on the inside of her thighs, and then she was freeing herself of her pants entirely and reaching for the clasp of his. He didn't help her, but watched her hands work the button, his eyes dark with a hunger so potent, it sent a flood of heat and dampness southward, making Sara's stomach twist in response. She ached everywhere-breasts, belly, groin-and then her hands were inside Michael's pants and she was skimming the hard, hard length of him through his boxers. She felt him tense, and looked up to his face to see him reaching for her, grasping her by the shoulder to draw her closer, to kiss her face and her breasts. "Sara," he breathed, and her own breath hitched. His mouth moved to her neck, his hands deep in her hair as she continued to stroke him. His voice was completely foreign. "This could end…very quickly…"

She tipped her head back, feeling the scrape of his teeth to her jaw, cupping him through the thin fabric of the boxers. His hands were now seeking her as well, dipping between her legs. "You'd better…" she began, and then momentarily lost her train of thought. "You'd better get me to bed then."

He was rubbing her, his fingers making rhythmic contact with the now-wet material of her underwear. "What?" he said belatedly.

"Bed," she managed. She arched upward into his touch, her entire torso nearly shaking from the residual impact of his palm grinding into her. _Harder,_ she wanted to say, but she felt as though she were trying to talk underwater. _More._

Instead, he pulled abruptly away, reaching for her hand, and she rose with him unsteadily only to turn back into his arms as soon as she was standing, pressing herself into him from chest to thigh. He found her mouth and ravaged it. _This was going to get them nowhere fast. Or perhaps more accurately,_ she thought desperately, _somewhere entirely_ too _fast._ "This way," she intoned, and then she was tugging on his arm and moving backward. Somehow, even with him kissing her chest and reaching around her to unclasp her bra, she made her way down the darkened hallway to her bedroom.

Her bra dropped to the floor, and Michael's hands replaced it, causing her to falter and then stop altogether a foot shy of her doorway, her arms around his neck and her eyes closed as he ran his hands all over her, from the swell of each breast to the lace band of her underwear. She shuddered, feeling his jaw tighten as she kissed him, hearing his groan as she drew him harder against her, her hands cupping his ass.

"What about…" he began, and she shushed him with her lips nearly bruising his.

"I've got it covered," she mumbled. "We're fine."

It was a small miracle they found the bed at all, but once there, Michael fell on top of her, his mouth closing over her nipple, his tongue circling and exploring as she pushed down his boxers. _Finally,_ he covered her body completely, hip rocking against hip, and _my God_ he was rock hard, hard enough that Sara knew that in a minute, probably less, she would come just like this, with just the feel of him shifting against her, rubbing…readying. _If nothing else, she was determined it was not going to happen with her underwear still on._

She reached down to pull them off, and his hands were right there, tangling with hers, fumbling and tugging along with her. When they were off, her legs spread as if of their own volition, and he slid instantly between them, his hips bucking against hers swiftly before he seemed to reign himself marginally back, one arm braced on the pillow beside her. She felt his length graze against her; she was so wet, he slid against her flesh in a tantalizing tease of friction that neither of them were quite prepared to endure. They both moaned. His face dipped toward her, his mouth now nearly brutal on her neck, and she cradled him with her thighs, succumbing to the sensation of pleasure-pain he was eliciting with each kiss.

He pressed one hand to her face, palming it almost roughly, but that's what it took to get her eyes to focus on his. When she did glance upward, his expression was almost haunted. It was definitely tortured. "This is going to be hard and fast," he confessed tightly. Sara was glad to hear no trace of apology in his tone.

 _"Good,"_ she breathed, and then she rocked her hips upward into his, clenching her jaw to keep from actually crying at the feel of him sliding into her. Any further words were ripped from her throat as he thrust into her, his forearms bracing the mattress, his hands in her hair. He must have taken her words as both confession and permission, because he was insatiable, and unforgiving, and rough.

 _Not rough enough._ She met him stroke for stroke, trying to last, trying to stifle the waves of pleasure already building and fanning out in a torrent of raw sensation, crashing against the boundaries of her flesh just to double back with what felt like multiplied potency. Michael was no longer kissing her; his face was buried in the crook of her neck, his hands now vice-tight on her hip and shoulder, and maybe it should have alarmed her, because she had never been taken like this, never been so thoroughly consumed with such intense hunger, in her life, but instead, she only heard herself moaning, wanting, and probably, pleading.

In the end, it was the sight of Michael's shoulders directly above her, all corded muscle and dark ink flexed aggressively over the pink jut of her bare nipples, that was her final undoing. Somewhere in her muddled mind, she flashed upon the image of him pulling his shirt up and over his head behind the feeble privacy of the infirmary curtain, her own hands curving over the inert strength of his deltoid, toying…wanting this even then, and seeing that same graceful arc of muscle now, juxtaposed over her own naked body, had her coming so hard she thought she would actually implode.

His head rose, his eyes flicking swiftly to her face, and then he was pressing his mouth to the curve of her ear. He told her he loved her all the while stroking into her hard enough to send a second shock of pleasure to rip across her belly. She arched once more, just for him, and he groaned darkly, shuddering as she finally felt him stiffen, flooding her with an almost violent rush of warmth.

 _"My God."_

He looked down at her through the gathering darkness of the room, offering her a shaky smile in response to her words while brushing her hair out of her face and bracing himself above her so that the majority of his weight was shifted to his shoulders. He was still buried inside of her, and he had absolutely no desire to move.

"Yeah," he contributed unhelpfully. They were both still breathing hard, the always intriguing flush across her chest now a deep rose, and he wouldn't pretend he wasn't relieved to see the glow of satisfaction in her eyes. He hadn't exactly exhibited much…well, finesse, and while thirty seconds ago, he had simply needed to _have_ her, to give himself in turn, he wouldn't mind the opportunity to prove himself a more intuitive, selfless lover. He had every intention of making sure he got it.

He bent to kiss her, and this time it was slow, and deep, and made his already shattered nerves rebound, shooting a fresh wave of desire down his spine. When he finally slid off of her, it was to lower his face to her breast, and then her stomach, his hands skimming down her thigh as his eyes followed their path, scanning her body from head to toe.

He sighed appreciatively and her flush deepened. "Michael," she protested self-consciously, her hand curving over the top of his skull, and he looked up at her and tugged playfully on a tip of her hair. "I'm afraid I suffered from a bit of a one-track mind earlier," he smiled. _As if she hadn't noticed._ "I'm ready to rectify that."

He watched her swallow, and then she was wrapping her legs back around him- _God, those legs_ and rolling him onto his back to span his torso with her hands, tracing the lines of ink with one fingertip. "Good thing we have all the time in the world, then," she whispered.

It was almost too dark to see, and she quickly lost her place amid the grids of ink, contenting herself instead to use her tongue to seek each tattooed shape and form upon his flesh for as long as Michael could stand it without reciprocating in equal measure. After that, she was on her back again, his mouth taking its time to travel everywhere, exploring…tasting…and they lost track of the minutes altogether, immersed in the deliciously narrowed world of sheets and darkness and carnal fulfillment so long postponed.

Around ten pm, they ordered Chinese take-out and ate it on the couch, and at midnight, they were still there, Sara's head in Michael's lap, half-eaten cartons and two sets of chop sticks scattered across the end table. They had been discussing her father, and his brother, and all the complications they could anticipate from a life begun and carried forth together, and as her eyelids grew heavy, Sara roused herself from his lap, spotting something to lighten the recent solemn shift in atmosphere. Reaching for the two fortune cookies that had been tucked into the carry-out bag along with extra napkins and soy sauce, she handed him one, then cracked open her own.

She scanned it swiftly, then felt her throat tighten painfully.

Michael leaned up on one elbow, looking at her expectantly, his hand curling over her knee. "Let's hear it."

She had to stall another second before her voice felt steady enough to read it aloud. "Love is for the lucky and the brave," she said softly.

They were both silent for a moment, and then she felt Michael's hand tighten on her leg. "In that case," he ventured, and she was pleased to hear his own voice had turned a bit gravelly, "I have a feeling _I'm_ lucky and _you're_ brave."

She smiled, then lay back down against him, thankful for his banter. She didn't want to cry tonight, not in sorrow or in joy; they had already spanned enough emotions in one evening to last some people a lifetime. She let him stroke her hair, his fingers skimming the nape of her neck on each deliberate slide, and after a while, she heard him crack open his own cookie. She watched as he extracted the tissue-thin strip of paper, read, and then handed it over to her. "I think I got yours," he intoned dryly.

She raised both eyebrows in suspicion before glancing down at the tiny text.

 _A cynic is only a frustrated optimist._

She laughed, reveling in the feel of his arms snaking around her as she pressed a half-kiss, half-nip to his chest. "I've told you before," she reminded him, "I'm not a cynic. I'm a realist."

He reached out to cup her face, likely to curtail any future biting. He kissed her gently, and then with increased hunger until she felt her pulse begin to race anew. "I can live with that," he told her solemnly, "as long as you know that _this_ is real."

She _did_ know. She knew as he made love to her again on the couch, and the next day as well, even as she frantically raced around the apartment in her haste to get to work on time; she'd put in for three days off starting on _Wednesday_ , not _Monday_ she told him mercilessly as he shamelessly begged her to come back to bed. She knew it the following night, as she slipped into the dress she had bought months ago-strapless, silk, and most importantly, _brown_ -to wear at the first available opportunity with a certain specific person.

She knew it as she watched Michael endure more than one disastrous dinner without complaint in his attempt to find his footing with her father before the two settled into something resembling grudging respect, and she knew it as he sought to regain the elements of his life he had given up the day he entered Fox River with stoic determination. Sara knew that his dogged pursuit of a fulfilling job and a restored relationship with his nephew was as much for her-the health of their relationship and their future together-as it was for himself.

She knew it as they slipped into bed at night and as the alarm woke them rudely in the morning, because despite all the ways in which they had beaten the clock, they still had schedules, just like anyone else. They still had deadlines and calendars and clocks ticking all over the apartment, but whatever countdown had been set into motion the day Michael first kissed her in the infirmary, whatever hourglass had been turned upon itself, bleached white sand beginning its rapid descent, it had run its course long ago. The power time had once held over them had been neutralized, and minutes and hours in their own right no longer possessed the ability to cast a spell over them. Instead, the hours and then the days simply moved forward, sometimes quickly, sometimes languidly, just as they did for everyone else. 

*****

 _Year Four_

 _Month Three_

 _Day 8_

 _"What time is it?"_

Sara sighed. "Will you stop asking me that? It's about thirty seconds after the last time you asked."

"Which would be…?"

"11:56. You've got four minutes to kill."

Beside her, Michael shifted from one foot to the other impatiently. "I'm just ready to see him out of here," he said a bit plaintively, and instantly, any lingering annoyance vanished.

She reached for his hand. "I know."

They waited for a few more minutes in silence, and then, in what Sara could only muse was poetic justice metered out just in the nick of time (Michael was practically bouncing with impatience at her side), they saw the main entrance to Fox River open two minutes ahead of schedule, a single guard unceremoniously depositing Lincoln on the other side. Sara saw him pause momentarily, his trousers a bit too loose, his sole possessions in a paper bag tucked under one arm, before catching sight of them; Michael was already moving toward him, closing the distance with long, loping strides.

Sara was all too happy to trail behind, smiling as the two brothers met in a crushing embrace, the limestone brick of the prison providing a sobering backdrop to the joyful sight and sound of their reunion. It was _their_ backdrop though, hers and Michael's and certainly Lincoln's as well, and not a day went by, as she drove in and out of this very parking lot, that she didn't wonder how she felt about that. That she didn't wonder whether this prison was her own personal blessing or curse in the manner that it gave and took, at times providing and withholding what she loved most in her life. In the end, as Lincoln and Michael turned to join her, Lincoln placing a hand on her arm and a quick kiss to her cheek, she decided it wasn't either. It was just a building, just as time was just an arbitrary tool invented to find order where there was none, but that fact didn't strip it of its significance in her life. Place and time changed everyone, every day, the world over, molding them, chaffing them, forcing them together and apart, and all that she, Sara, could do was to try to be lucky, and try to be brave, and to hold onto the one person who would be the optimist to her realist, taking her hand, threading his fingers through hers, and giving her faith.


	16. Chapter 16

The day dragged. Of _course_ this would be the one day the infirmary was dead, causing each minute to tick by on the overhead clock to feel like an hour. The good part was, Sara figured she could complete all her paperwork between patients, allowing her to leave right at 5 pm. The bad part was, Katie found plenty of time to observe her mood, which was noticeably (and probably annoyingly) giddy.

"So what'd you do last night?" she asked curiously, settling herself against the edge of Sara's desk, a patient file forgotten in her hands.

 _Had the hottest sex of my life._ "Ah, just stayed in." Vague, but true. She forced herself not to grin. She was finding it impossible to sit still, she was so anxious to go home. She didn't realize she was bouncing on the balls of her feet until her knee hit the underside of the desk painfully. " _Ow_ -ordered Chinese," she added for a touch of detail. "You?"

Katie just shook her head. "About the same." Somehow, Sara found that hard to believe. Luckily, Katie was undeterred. "You and I need to get out, girl. How about we grab dinner tonight?" Before she could even answer, Katie was shaking her head. "And no excuses…I know they don't need you _here."_

"Actually," Sara smiled. She stilled her feet's rhythmic tapping. "I have plans tonight."

Katie's eyes widened dramatically. "A date? And not just a my-dad-is-setting-me-up date?"

"A real date," she confirmed.

Katie snorted. "Long overdue."

"You have no idea."

The front door opened from the inside before she could fully turn the key in the lock.

"Finally."

His smile was contagious. "But I'm _early!_ "

Michael reached past her to shut the door. When he straightened, he was looking at her oddly. "You're still in your lab coat."

"I told you, I hurried home." She tugged on one sleeve, lifting her shoulders to shrug out of it. He stilled her, grasping each lapel and pulling her to him.

"What's the rush?"

She had been anticipating his kiss since he opened the door, and it didn't disappoint. When he pulled back, his fingers were still toying with the lab coat.

"I thought you seemed impatient, that's all."

"Sure," he said easily, and he reminded her so much of the flirt in the infirmary her stomach flipped. "But this," he smiled, his eyes sweeping down her white coat-she noted belatedly that her nametag was still in place above the upper-right pocket-"can stay on."

Despite his words, his hands were already inside the thin cotton, running softly over the knit of her blouse. She grasped him by the hips to steady herself against him. He was wearing trousers, she noticed. Nice ones. Perhaps a wool-silk blend.

"Had I guessed your penchant for uniform," she mused when his lips freed hers again, "I would have 'borrowed' some inmate blues from the laundry."

He regarded her, the familiar smirk still playing with the corners of his mouth. "You'd be surprised how hard those are to get your hands on."

Her eyes danced. "You're telling me."

It was another hour before she was dressed and he was _re_ dressed, and she emerged from the bathroom in the brown dress she had saved just for this occasion to the sight of him chilling her nonalcoholic cider in a bowl of ice.

She laughed. "I'd forgotten about that!"

He turned. "I can't think of much else we overlooked last night, so maybe you should go easy on…" He trailed off. "Is that the dress?"

She felt herself flush. It had suddenly occurred to her that she had never worn anything but work or casual attire in his presence. _Or,_ her mind amended swiftly, _nothing at all._ She took a cautious step-literally _and_ figuratively-forward. "Is it ok?"

He smiled almost shakily. "Who are you, and what have you done with my doctor?"

 _She could have asked him the same thing._ Or at least, in essence. He was leaning against the counter, twirling a bottle opener in one hand, his button-down shirt crisp against his olive skin, his tie a rich crimson that sharply complemented the charcoal of his trousers. He was every young professional she'd ever seen through the filtered glass of foreign exports on her daily commute. Every man she'd ever met at a cocktail party for Chicago's latest and greatest. Sophisticated. Educated. Concerned citizen of the world. It wasn't a negative connotation, per se, just one that unnervingly challenged her image of him as a complicated hero. A contradiction. A man in the trenches…with her.

She crossed the kitchen and reached up to fiddle with his tie. It didn't need adjusting.

When he tipped his head to kiss her again, she gently deflected his advance. "At this rate," she chastised softly, her hands stilling on his chest. They looked especially feminine to her there…not a doctor's hands. A lover's hands. He looked at her quizzically until she realized she was still staring at the knot of his tie. "Do they make you feel more like yourself?" He shook his head in confusion, the bottle opener still looped around his forefinger. "Is this you?" she pressed. "The clothes? The suit?"

He set the opener down on the counter. "It's _part_ of me," he answered slowly. "I thought I'd try it on, see if it still fit." She wasn't sure whether he was teasing: the suit looked new to her. He reached for her, allowing a thick strand of her hair to slip slowly between his fingers. She had taken extra time to curl it, wearing it down in soft waves.

He turned the question on her. "Is this you?"

"Sometimes." She smiled down into her cleavage. "But I'm sure you'll be shocked to hear I find frustratingly few occasions to wear low-cut halter tops to work."

"Funny," he said, but he was frowning. He followed her line of sight down the sharp V of her dress, let his eyes rest there until she fidgeted, then looked up, pinning her to the spot with the same steely gaze she felt as if she'd known for decades. He smiled. "Can I pop this cork now?" he asked.

The release of carbonation was loud in the room, making Sara startle even though her eyes had been trained on the loosening cork, anticipating the rush of foamy cider that was now cascading down the sides of the green glass. Michael turned hastily to hold it over the sink until the liquid settled, then tipped the bottle to fill two glasses, simultaneously trying to wipe cider off his hand with a dish towel. He laughed at the mess, but when he turned back to face her, her expression must have sobered him.

"To all the time in the world," he said softly, handing her a glass then clinking it with his own.

The sound was both melodious and sharp, crystal clear in the silence of the kitchen, but she barely registered it. She was too busy drinking him in…her eye falling on his long fingers grasping the stem of his glass, the straight line of buttons down his torso, the fine spray of cider now dotting his tie. She imagined all the roles he might fill in her life, afforded such an unlimited number of months and years. She imagined all the changes, all the events, all the holidays and even all the heartaches…all the _people_ they now had time to be to one another, and she felt her earlier buoyant mood return on a rush of emotion. She wondered if it were possible to become tipsy simply from the sticky-sweet smell accompanying their first toasted occasion.

She raised her glass in his direction, suddenly needing to swallow tightly.

"I'll drink to that."


End file.
